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SECOND   EDITION 

"THE  ROBE'S  ISLAND  WRECK 
AND    OTHER   STORIES" 

BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 
(With  a  Portrait  Sketch  by  Castaine.) 

Since  the  publication  of  the  first  edition  of  these 
stories,  Cobb's  Island  has  been  wrecked  by  the  en- 
croachments of  the  ocean.  What  was  for  a  century 
a  great  hunting  and  health  resort,  with  hotels,  cot- 
tages, a  church,  and  a  life-saving  station,  is  now  wave- 
swept  and  desolate. 

In  addition  to  "The  Robb's  Island  Wreck"  there  are 
seven  stories  in  the  collection. 


"No  more  entertaining  companion  can  be  desired 
than  this  bundle  of  simple  tales.  It  fulfills  all  the  re- 
quirements of  a  vacation  book;  it  is  light,  humorous 
and  clever;  well-written." — The  Critic. 

"We  commend  it  to  the  lovers  of  good  fiction."— 
The  Independent. 

"There  are  wholesome  rounds  of  laughter  lurking 
all  through  the  pages."— Literary  Weekly. 

"Exceptionally  bright,  well-told  tales,  enjoyable  to 
read  ana  pleasant  to  remember." — Hartford  Cottrant. 

"The  stories  are  capital." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"A  main  quality  is  their  naturalness;  they  are  told 
with  a  pleasant  humor  and  with  no  straining  for  ef- 
fect, and  they  are  genuinely  American." — Review  of 
Reviews. 

"Pleasing  in  style,  clean  in  humor,  and  brimful  of 
good  cheer." — St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch. 

"From  a  peculiarly  American  point  of  view  and 
written  in  a  brisk  and  telling  way."  —  New  York 
Times. 

"There  is  a  distinct  quality  about  these  stories."— 
Literary  World. 

"Delightfully  American."— San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"Has  succeeded  where  it  is  very  difficult  to  be  suc- 
cessful; it  is  American  life  throughout."— Baltimort 
Sun. 

"Much  vigor  and  directness  of  aim."—  The  Nation. 

"The  Robb's  Island  Wreck  and  Other  Stories" 
and  "Some  of  Our  People",  uniform  in  style  and  bind- 
ing, $1.00  each,  or  both  in  a  box,  $2.00. 


SOME  OF  OUR  PEOPLE. 


COPYRIGHT,  1898 

BY 
LYNN  R.  MEEKINS. 


i^"*';  "-Vit.  '  A  '•'*<*     A^  -I 

m       -^ 


7 


SOME  OF  OUR    PEOPLE 


BY 

LYNN  ROBY  MEEKINS 


BALTIMORE 

WILLIAMS  &  WILKINS  COMPANY 
MDCCCXCVIII 


TO  MY  WIFE. 


CONTENTS. 

THE  RETURNS  FROM  ST.  MARY'S   .    .  i 

A  HERO  IN  THE  FLESH 36 

DANIEL  SPRING  BUDSON 56 

ABNER 71 

ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS  .     .    .  101 

PROFESSOR  WINTERS 127 

AN  OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN   ....  144 

SLUMBERING  JOSEPH 172 


THE  RETURNS  FROM  ST. 
MARY'S. 


H 


.  E  came  in  when  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
work,  as  he  usually  did,  for  he  knew  op- 
portunity. Taking  his  seat  in  the  chair  that 
tilted  back,  he  soon  had  his  cigar  lighted 
and  he  was  one  of  us  again. 

"It's  no  use,  boys,  I  can't  stay  away. 
When  a  man  touches  printer's  ink  he  is 
charmed  for  life — he  may  wander  off  but 
he  is  bound  to  return,  like  Colonel  Jones 
who  goes  down  in  his  private  car  once  a 
year  just  to  get  a  drink  of  hard  cider  from 
the  old  barrel  in  the  barn." 

The  Major  had  been  a  great  editor  in  the 
glorious  days  when  the  editor  wrote  one 
epoch-making  editorial  early  in  the  week 
and  then  wandered  among  the  meeting 
places  of  men  to  hear  it  talked  about.  Thus 
had  come  a  wide  circle  of  acquaintances 
and  the  call  of  his  party  and  his  election 
to  Congress,  where  he  served  with  enough 
success  to  perpetuate  himself  as  an  office- 
holder for  many  years  afterwards.  He 
i 


2  THE   RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY  S. 

had  been  consul  and  assistant  secretary  and 
other  things,  landing  at  last  under  the 
glorious  protection  of  civil  service  reform 
with  an  income  that  met  his  moderate 
needs.  He  was  destined  for  greater 
honors,  for  Governor  or  for  United  States 
Senator,  but  he  forfeited  the  pleasures  of 
the  rich  for  the  comforts  of  the  poor,  and 
enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the 
powers  who  made  Governors  and  Senators, 
although  he  kept  his  politics  well  con- 
cealed so  as  not  to  forfeit  the  aegis  of  the 
civil  service  law. 

"But  journalism  is  not  what  it  used  to 
be,  not  what  it  was  in  my  day  and  gener- 
ation. We  had  papers  then,  we  had  editors 
— we  did  things.  The  paper  was  a  being, 
with  good  legs  and  strong  lungs,  and  it 
was  out  for  a  fight  or  a  race  or  a  shouting 
match  every  day  in  the  week,  every  day  but 
Sunday.  Look  at  your  papers  to-day — just 
machines  turning  out  endless  miles  of 
wood  pulp.  You  spoil  white  paper  and 
sell  it  at  cost.  And  the  Sunday  abomin- 
ation! Forty,  fifty,  sixty,  sometimes  a 
hundred  pages,  slushing  over  the  Day  of 
Rest  an  avalanche  of  horror.  Why  do  you 
do  it?  Even  the  Lord  worked  only  six 
days  a  week  while  you — 

"Oh,  every  man  gets  his  day  off." 


THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY  S.  3 

"Boys,"  said  the  Major  solemnly  yet 
kindly,  "you  don't  count.  You  may  think 
you  do  but  you  don't.  I  used  to  harbor 
the  same  vanity.  As  a  member  of  Con- 
gress I  was  an  honorable;  as  consul  to 
Portugal  I  was  both  honorable  and  Re- 
spected Sir;  as  an  appointee  in  some  other 
offices  I  had  an  official  entity  which  pleased 
my  pride,  but  now  I  belong  to  the  Classi- 
fied Service.  And  so  do  you.  You  are 
cogs  in  the  wheel.  You  are  clerks  in  the 
department  store  shooting  orders  and 
money  to  the  cashiers'  desks  and  getting 
back  very  little  change.  And  a  few  of  you 
are  floor  walkers  and  counter  superintend- 
ents, and  you  report  on  the  condition  of 
the  stock.  'The  Sensation  Bargain  Counter 
needs  new  goods,'  you  say  to  the  head 
office,  and  you  are  at  once  ordered  to  obtain 
the  latest  at  the  lowest  rate,  but  to  spare  no 
expense  in  getting  it,  and  the  next  week 
you  are  advertising  'How  A  Cross-Eyed 
Girl  Married  the  Best  Man;  Affidavit  from 
the  Parson;  Case  Corroborated  By  Lead- 
ing Oculists;  Dangers  of  The  Altar;  Ex- 
pected Groom  Will  Bring  Suit  For  Dam- 
ages; An  Incredible  Yet  Actual  Occur- 
rence.' And  your  reporters — what  are 
they?  Messenger  boys — mere  messenger 
boys,  sent  out  on  errands.  And  your 


4  THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY  S. 

editors — what  are  they?  Well-paid  gentle- 
men who  answer  the  business-office  tele- 
phone. Oh,  it  is  pitiful,  pitiful,  pitiful!" 

The  Major  took  a  long  draw  at  his  cigar, 
and  we  knew  he  was  getting  ready  to  say 
something  about  the  past. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "the  good  old  times  did 
not  pay  as  big  salaries  as  you  get  but  they 
made  up  in  glory  what  they  lacked  in  cash. 
With  the  big  incomes  of  to-day  the  papers 
can  do  marvelous  things,  but  what  is  it  to 
sit  at  a  desk  and,  by  writing  telegrams, 
order  what  you  can  afford  to  buy  just  as 
you  would  your  groceries.  It  is  all  money 
and  bigness  and  organization  and  monopoly, 
and  the  individual  is  swallowed  up  and  lost. 
Why,  we  had  more  brains  in  one  of  our 
four  page  issues  in  the  old  times  than  you 
have  in  your  fifty-page  atrocities  of  the 
present.  We  made  the  man  bigger  than 
the  machine.  It  wasn't  columns,  but  what 
we  put  in  them.  And  when  we  wanted 
something  we  got  it,  even  if  the  business 
office  went  broke.  You've  a  net  of  wires 
over  civilization  that  do  your  bidding; 
you've  long  distance  telephones;  you've 
bicycles,  and  heaven  only  knows  what  else. 
Your  enterprise  to-day  is  simply  ticks  and 
schedules  and  hellos  and  flimsey.  Oh, 
how  I  wish  you  could  have  known  the 


THE   RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY'S.  5 

old  days — the  good  old  days,  the  days 
when  Dave  Ross  was  in  the  full  glory  of 
his  career.  There  was  a  real  reporter  for 
you.  .When  he  went  out  we  never  knew 
when  he  would  come  back,  but  when  he 
came  he  brought  the  worth  of  his  salary 
with  him.  If  he  had  lived  in  the  ancient 
days  and  had  been  sent  after  the  golden 
fleece  he  would  have  brought  it  back  or 
there  would  have  been  a  mutton  famine 
along  the  Mediterranean.  He  was  the 
loveliest,  best  natured  and  most  innocent 
liar  that  ever  lived.  There  was  not  a  par- 
ticle of  deceit  in  him  but  he  could  lie  like 
inspiration  itself.  He  was  absolutely  hon- 
est and  he  had  no  bad  habits,  but  Lord! 
how  he  could  lie.  I  can  see  him  now — tall, 
spare,  placid  as  a  glacier,  smooth  as  a  poli- 
tician, glib  as  an  auctioneer,  looking  like 
a  preacher  and  meeting  every  circumstance 
of  life  as  if  he  had  received  advance  notice 
of  its  coming.  He  was  the  man  who  did 
our  big  work  and  he  did  it  like  the  genius 
that  he  was." 

The  Major  paused  again  and  waited  for 
one  of  the  telegraph  editors  to  put  a  head 
on  a  piece  of  copy  that  had  just  come  in. 

"The  first  time  we  broke  the  business 
office  was  when  we  began  our  feud  with 
the  people  across  the  street.  They  made 


6  THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY  S. 

some  slighting  reference  to  us  and  we 
promptly  got  out  our  book  of  synonyms 
and  let  them  have  a  broadside.  They  fol- 
lowed with  the  rest  of  the  dictionary,  and 
then  I  believe  there  were  a  few  arrests  for 
criminal  libel  and  interesting  threats  of 
personal  meetings  and  a  whole  lot  of 
bluster  which  kept  the  town  on  its  tiptoes. 
Just  about  that  time  a  State  election  with 
a  United  States  Senatorship  involved  came 
around  and  the  fight  was  close.  The  re- 
turns were  important  and  we  had  to  have 
them.  It  was  easy  enough  to  get  the  main 
part  of  the  State  but  the  problem  was 
Southern  Maryland.  There  are  four 
counties  down  there  and  the  single  line  of 
railroad  ended  nowhere  and  the  only  tele- 
graph office  was  fifty  miles  off.  We  heard 
that  the  other  fellows  had  decided  upon  a 
grand  coup,  had  hired  a  special  train,  and 
couriers  from  every  polling  place,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  Of  course  we  had  to 
toe  the  mark,  and  Dave  Ross  was  ordered 
to  get  the  Southern  Maryland  returns  in 
any  way  and  at  any  cost.  That  was  the 
commencement  of  the  struggle  which  made 
the  business  office  groan  every  November. 
It  cost  us  all  the  way  from  five  hundred  to 
a  thousand  dollars  for  about  ten  lines  of 
news — but  the  glory  of  it!  Oh,  the  glory 


THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY  S.  ^ 

of  it!  Just  think  of-  the  time  when  Dave 
walked  into  the  telegraph  office  and  held 
the  wires  until  after  breakfast.  The  oper- 
ator's table  was  covered  with  a  newspaper 
and  on  the  walls  were  pasted  more  papers 
to  keep  out  the  cold.  When  Dave  had  no 
more  copy  to  send,  what  did  he  do? 
simply  said  to  the  man: 

"  'Telegraph  your  table  cover  and  when 
that  gives  out  begin  on  the  wall  paper,'  and 
until  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were 
getting  stale  death  notices,  advertisements, 
old  cablegrams,  and  the  good  Lord  only 
knows  what  else.  But  we  got  the  returns 
and  the  other  folks  didn't.  You  couldn't 
beat  him.  Why  he  would  just  spill  money 
all  over  the  country,  and  the  business  office 
would  go  into  thirty  days  mourning.  It 
got  so  bad  that  even  I — who  loved  the  fel- 
low— had  to  call  him  to  account. 

"  'Dave,'  said  I  as  severely  as  I  could, 
'your  expense  accounts  are  not  satisfactory. 
Now  here  is  an  item,  ''For  treating  the 
party  in  Southern  Maryland,  $68.05."  We  do 
not  mind  the  sixty-eight  dollars — we  don't 
kick  against  it  at  all,  but  the  five  cents, 
what  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  that?' 

"Dave  never  moved  an  eye-lash  but 
called  out  to  me,  'Oh,  Major,  that's  all 
right.  One  of  'em  took  a  cigar.'  Those 


8          THE  RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY'S. 

were  times  when  men  meant  something 
when  it  wasn't  the  machine  that  did  all  the 
work.  And  the  climax  of  it  all.  Boys,  it 
was  tragic  but  it  was  magnificent, — the  re- 
turns from  St.  Mary's  I  mean." 

It  may  be  well  to  tell  those  who  want  to 
know  about  this  great  race  that  after  the 
Potomac  river  leaves  Washington  it  bends 
towards  the  southwest  and  then  makes  a 
huge  curve  to  the  northeast  and  rather  sud- 
denly makes  a  long  and  comparatively 
straight  run  to  its  confluence  with  the 
Chesapeake  Bay;  and  also  that  the  Chesa- 
peake Bay,  carrying  the  drainage  of  an 
area  larger  than  England  and  Scotland,  has 
come  nearly  two  hundred  miles  almost  due 
south  when  it  receives  the  Potomac's  cur- 
rents. Between  the  two  is  a  full,  fat  and 
fertile  peninsula  shaped  like  a  Chinese  foot, 
and  the  toes  of  it  are  St.  Mary's  county. 
The  toes  and  more  and  its  hundreds  of 
square  miles  are  historic  ground.  It  was 
here  that  the  Ark  and  Dove  landed  with 
cargoes  of  gentlemen  who  had  outgrown 
the  financial  opportunities  of  their  na- 
tive land,  and  with  them  were  underlings 
whose  offspring  afterwards  measured  up  to 
the  opportunities  of  the  new  world.  It  was 
here  that  the  historical  Act  of  Religious 
Toleration  found  its  birth.  The  Catholics 


THE   RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY*S.  p 

claim  it,  on  the  ground  that  Lord  Balti- 
more, the  Proprietor,  was  a  Catholic.  The 
Protestants  claim  it,  on  the  ground  that  the 
majority  of  the  local  legislature  who  origi- 
nated and  passed  it  were  Protestants,  and 
as  a  detail  they  throw  in  the  statement  that 
before  Lord  Baltimore  became  a  Catholic 
he  was  a  Protestant.  At  periods  there  are 
rather  unreligious  disputes  over  this  inter- 
esting fact  of  history,  but  they  generally 
end  in  the  agreement  that  there  is  enough 
glory  for  both  sides  and  all  other  denom- 
inations, and  thus  it  ends,  and  whatever 
others  may  gain  or  lose  the  halo  remains 
with  St.  Mary's.  In  good  truth  it  is  a 
friendly  place  for  a  halo.  Here  is  a  spot 
unspoiled  by  the  rush  and  tear  of  mod- 
ern madness.  Its  life  is  as  gentle  and  as 
pure  and  as  calm  as  the  tides  which  rise 
and  fall  in  its  lovely  rivers.  There  are  no 
shouting  currents  tearing  away  its  nerves 
and  its  vitals,  but  in  it  and  over  it  is  a 
spirit  of  repose  as  tranquil  and  as  satisfied 
as  the  life  of  its  unequalled  oysters  which 
cling  to  their  homes  and  grow  fat  on  what 
the  gods  of  the  waters  bring  to  them. 

The  Act  of  Religious  Toleration  is  not 
the  only  cause  that  boosts  this  modest  and 
retired  county  into  occasional  prominence. 
Once  a  year  it  votes,  and  thereon  hangs 


10         THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARYS. 

Dave  Ross.  From  the  first  effort  to  get 
the  Southern  Maryland  returns  in  the 
night  of  the  election  or  the  early  morning 
thereafter  there  were  difficulties  which 
seemed  insurmountable.  The  only  telegraph 
station  was  a  half  hundred  miles  away. 
The  four  counties  are  cut  up  by  frequent 
rivers  and  streams  and  there  are  outlying 
islands  which  had  to  be  reached  by  boats. 
To  gather  the  figures  of  the  vote  meant 
many  messengers,  relays  of  horses  and  all 
the  facilities  of  speed  and  transportation 
which  the  country  afforded.  It  meant 
more:  It  meant  thorough  preliminary  or- 
ganization and  brilliant  dashes  at  the 
climax.  It  also  meant  resource,  which  is  a 
polite  word  for  trickery  of  the  sort  which  is 
sometimes  called  enterprise.  And  thus  it 
was  that  nothing  was  left  undone — includ- 
ing a  few  of  the  Ten  Commandments — to 
win. 

Ross'  genius  shone  from  the  first.  He 
was  a  combination  of  Napoleon,  Phil 
Sheridan  and  Moseby  in  the  intricacy  and 
dash  and  unexpectedness  of  his  strategy. 
The  Major  stated  that  there  was  only  one 
line  of  railroad  in  Southern  Maryland.  As 
one  who  belongs  to  the  Classified  Service, 
he  has  a  right  to  forget,  but  really  he 
should  have  remembered  that  there  was 


THE   RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY's.         II 

another  line  of  road  in  that  section.  Rail- 
road building  in  Southern  Maryland  has 
been  a  fad  since  steam  began  to  do  some- 
thing more  than  sing  out  of  a  kettle  spout. 
It  has  been  more  completely  surveyed  for 
railroads  than  any  spot  on  the  map,  but 
generally  the  surveyors  got  tired,  or  if  they 
stood  the  strain  the  builders  grew  weary 
after  making  a  few  miles  of  road  bed,  or  if 
they  kept  on,  the  money  or  something  else 
gave  out  and  there  it  ended.  But  a  road 
was  really  built  and  it  had  a  real  engine 
that  drew  one  car  for  passengers  and 
freight  until  it  reached  a  moment  of  despair 
and  quietly  ran  off  the  track  and  there- 
after rusted  in  perfect  peace.  The  weeds 
grew  taller  between  the  ties  and  the  line 
was  run  no  more.  Except  once.  Dave 
Ross  had  arranged  his  details  with  more 
than  usual  publicity,  and  the  Opposition 
had  apparently  ascertained  and  checkmated 
all  his  plans.  But  at  the  critical  moment 
when  they  expected  Dave  to  appear  he  was 
not  to  be  found,  and  it  took  a  whole  week 
for  them  to  find  out  that  Dave  while  pre- 
tending to  establish  his  base  of  operations 
where  the  Opposition  camped,  as  they 
thought,  on  his  heels,  had  played  the  shab- 
by trick  of  reviving  the  old  railroad  and 
using  it  as  a  short-cut  to  victory.  Then 


12         THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY  S. 

there  were  other  things,  such  as  hiring  men 
to  tear  away  bridges  and  cut  harness  and 
play  various  kinds  of  mean  jokes  upon  the 
Opposition's  messengers.  Dave's  code  of 
morality  in  matters  of  this  kind  was  per- 
fectly simple:  "Anything  but  murder  to 
win."  And  yet,  as  the  Major  said,  Dave 
had  no  bad  habits. 

When  the  climax  approached,  Dave  had 
a  clean  record  of  triumph.  He  usually  beat 
the  Opposition;  he  was  never  beaten. 
Sometimes  they  got  their  returns  in  the 
same  editions,  but  never  earlier  than 
Dave's  paper.  After  Dave  used  the  old 
road  it  went  back  permanently  to  its  rust- 
ing, and  the  regular  line  had  to  be  the  race 
course. 

Nothing  could  better  show  the  conquer- 
ing air  of  Dave  Ross  than  his  reception  on 
the  crisp  October  day  when  he  arrived  to 
complete  his  arrangements  for  the  returns. 
When  autumn  comes,  Southern  Maryland 
and  heaven  are  next-door  neighbors,  and 
that  Monday  was  angelic.  It  was  just  be- 
ginning to  depart  in  a  sunset  of  matchless 
splendor  when  Dave,  with  head  erect  and  a 
new  overcoat  across  his  arm,  stepped  off 
the  train.  The  conductor  shook  his  hands; 
the  brakeman  said  good-bye  and  the  engi- 
neer looked  from  his  cab  to  salute  him. 


THE   RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY  S.         13 

But  by  this  time  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
friendly  circle,  and  the  colored  porters 
were  on  the  verge  of  a  fight  in  their  de- 
termination to  get  his  baggage  checks  and 
his  overcoat. 

"Home  again,"  exclaimed  Dave  to  his 
admirers.  "Home  again.  Home  again  in 
God's  own  country,"  and  waving  his  hand 
to  the  west,  he  added  reverently,  "Ah, 
look  at  that  sunset!  There  are  no  sunsets 
like  the  sunsets  of  Southern  Maryland.  I 
wish  I  could  stay  here  forever.  I  tell  you, 
my  good  friends,  that  you  are  blest  with 
the  finest  place  in  the  world.  I  take  off 
my  hat  to  you.  I  take  it  off  to  Southern 
Maryland,"  and  he  did  so,  as  he  continued, 
"Hello,  Bill.  That  pup  I  promised  you 
last  year — I  intended  to  send  it — honest  I 
did — What? — year  before  last,  was  it? — 
Great  Lord,  how  time  does  fly! — That  pup 
was  the  finest  dog  that  ever  lived.  Yes, 
he's  dead.  Poisoned.  But  I've  got  an- 
other one  for  you.  Gentlemen,  that  pup 
I'm  going  to  send  Bill  just  as  soon  as  I 
get  back  to  the  city  is  the  most  astonishing 
dog  you  ever  heard  of.  Missed  him  for 
two  days  and  where  do  yo-i  suppose  we 
found  him?  Up  in  the  guest  chamber, 
pointing  a  covey  of  partridges  in  a  picture. 
Why  that  dog— Judge  how  are  you?  I 


14         THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARYS. 

certainly  am  glad  to  see  you.  Up  in  the 
office  they  always  say,  'Dave,  that  is  hard 
work  in  Southern  Maryland,  why  dt>  you 
do  it?'  and  I  just  tell  them  that  the  privi- 
lege of  coming  down  here  and  meeting  you 
is  all  the  recompense  I  want." 

"I  suppose  you  will  win  as  usual  this 
year?"  asked  the  Judge,  after  returning  the 
compliments. 

"Win?  Will  I  win?  Will  a  duck  swim? 
Will  an  old  maid  pet  a  cat?  Will  a  politi- 
cian drink  whiskey?  Will  Bill  get  that 
pup?  Well,  I  guess." 

"Kernel  Ross  is  come,"  was  all  the  infor- 
mation needed  to  make  the  hotel  a  ren- 
dezvous. Some  had  preceded  him,  and  he 
arrived  with  an  audience.  There  was  an 
easy  explanation  for  this.  He  brought 
money  to  a  town  where  money  was  scarce. 
He  hired  horses  and  carriages.  He  em- 
ployed messengers.  He  treated  liberally. 
He  was  a  prince  of  plenty — and  he  cared 
not  how  the  business  office  groaned. 

There  are  a  great  many  colonels  in  some 
parts  of  Southern  Maryland  and  in  this 
town  they  were  epidemic.  So  Ross  be- 
came a  colonel,  too,  and  there  were  times 
when  he  was  promoted  to  a  full  general- 
ship, but  to  this  he  objected,  because  it  cost 
too  much.  At  least,  that  is  what  he  told 


THE    RETURNS   FROM    ST.    MARY'S.         15 

Sam,  the  head  waiter.  "Sam,"  he  said, 
"you  black  nigger,  you've  robbed  me 
out  of  every  cent  I've  got  now.  It  cost 
enough  to  be  a  colonel  and  I  can't  afford  to 
be  a  general.  The  office  would  kick  at  the 
bill.  Call  me  'mister.'  " 

"We  doan't  know  dat  air  word  in  dese 
parts,"  replied  Sam  with  a  chuckle. 
"Kernel,  hab  some  mo'  ob  de  tarrapin." 

"Get  away  from  here.  No,  come  back. 
I'd  like  to  kill  you,  but  the  place  where 
you  would  go  is  overcrowded,"  and  then 
he  lowered  his  voice,  "Who  is  that  young 
fellow?" 

A  slender,  pale-faced  young  man,  evi- 
dently under  twenty-five  years  and  not 
over  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds,  sat  by 
himself  at  the  other  end  of  the  dining- 
room.  He  was  apparently  about  five  feet, 
seven.  He  had  a  good  strong  face  and  a 
modest  demeanor.  Indeed,  he  seemed  ob- 
livious to  his  surroundings  and  entirely  de- 
voted to  the  food  before  him. 

"He's  de  oder  paper's  man."  To  Sam 
there  were  only  two  classes  of  papers, 
Ross'  and  the  other's.  "He's  been  down 
heah  almos'  a  week." 

"What  has  he  been  doing?" 

"Riding  around  and  gettin'  ready.  I'se 
watched  him  fer  you  'en  he  ain't  done 
nothin'  to  hurt." 


l6         THE   RETURNS   FROM    ST.    MARY'S. 

"He  looks  wiry,"  was  Dave's  only  re- 
mark as  he  finished  his  inspection  of  the 
man.  "Sam,  after  the  crowd  goes  to- 
night, come  to  my  room." 

Dave  had  gone  to  the  dining  room  early 
to  satisfy  his  appetite  after  his  long  jour- 
neying. The  crowd  that  had  greeted  him — 
it  would  be  better,  doubtless,  to  call  it  a 
gathering,  for  it  was  not  large  enough  for 
a  crowd — had  partaken  of  his  hospitality. 
"Gentlemen,"  he  said  in  his  buoyant  way, 
"hospitality  in  Maryland  is  not  'How  are 
ye?'  but  'What'll  ye  have?'  Kernel,  set  'em 
up."  This  colonel  was  the  keeper  of  the 
hotel  and  he  had  prepared  the  supper  for 
Dave,  so  that  while  the  thirsty  were 
quenching  the  fires  within  Dave  was  get- 
ting his  more  substantial  refreshment.  He 
arose  from  it  and  re-entered  the  room 
where  his  friends  and  admirers — the  re- 
sults and  consequences  and  incidents  of  his 
previous  campaigns — were  ripening  under 
the  inspiration  that  burns  more  than  it 
quenches.  The  scene  that  followed  for  the 
succeeding  hours  must  go  from  us  as  one 
of  those  misfortunes  which  belong  to  life 
and  literature. 

Dave  simply  bloomed.  "The  Judge  was 
just  saying  that  you  gentlemen  seemed  to 
miss  something  in  the  paper  for  a  week  or 


THE   RETURNS   FROM    ST.    MARY'S.         17 

so  last  month,"  he  said  very  calmly,  "and 
it  may  be  you  did.  But,  gentlemen,  I  can't 
be.  there  all  the  time.  I  have  to  get  away 
to  breathe  once  and  a  while.  But  the 
paper  is  bigger  than  any  man,  and  you 
know  yourselves  it  is  the  only  one  that 
gives  all  the  news  to  both  parties.  What 
we  say  is  so.  If  it  isn't  so  it's  got  to  be 
so.  We  got  the  wrong  man  dead  last 
spring  and  when  he  came  up  to  complain 
we  simply  told  him  he  had  to  stay  dead 
long  enough  for  the  funeral  in  order  to 
save  our  reputation.  He — that  reform 
movement.  Rot!  Just  pure,  unadulter- 
ated not,  and  you  know  it,  Judge,  as  well 
as  I  do.  They'll  never  win.  Reform  is  a 
Yankee  word — a  Yankee  plan  to  walk  into 
office  on  the  heads  of  niggers.  Why,  we 
won't  let  'em  win.  Well,  Dan,  how  are 
you?  I  knew  I  missed  something  and  it 
was  you.  How  are  the  little  Dannies? 
Well,  I  hope.  What?  Another  one?  Great 
Lord,  if  the  Democratic  party  doesn't  keep 
up  its  majority  it  won't  be  your  fault.  That 
dog.  Yes,  I  had  it — a  fine  Irish  setter. 
Gentlemen,  that  Irish  setter  I  was  going 
to  send  Dan  was  the  greatest  dog  you  ever 
heard  of.  He  was  so  Irish  that  he  could 
always  tell  a  Democrat  from  a  Republican, 
and — well — yes,  Dan,  he  was  poisoned  with 
2 


l8        THE   RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY'S. 

Bill's  pup,  but  I've  got  another  one  for  you 
and  he  will  be  sent  down  just  as  soon  as  I 
get  to  the  city.  It's  a  long  time  between 
honeymoons,  as  the  old  man  said  to 
Xantippe,  and  I  hope  you  gentlemen  will 
accept  the  compliments  of  the  greatest 
paper  printed." 

There  was  more  of  this  and  it  lasted 
rather  late,  but  Dave  kept  his  head,  and 
after  he  reached  his  room  he  was  busy  for 
fully  two  hours  receiving  reports  of  those 
who  had  served  him.  Sam  was  in  his  pay. 
The  hotel  proprietor  was  his  ally.  Others 
whom  he  wanted  came  at  his  bidding.  He 
had  control  of  the  situation.  Questions  as 
to  the  other  one  satisfied  him.  He  was  a 
young  raw  reporter  who  had  been  sent  to 
beat  a  man  who  had  an  uninterrupted  re- 
cord, who  knew  the  country,  who  had 
devised  the  schemes  that  had  made  success, 
who  was  king  of  the  whole  situation.  The 
raw  reporter's  name  was  Devlin  and  he 
kept  away  from  the  bar-room  and  went  to 
bed  early. 

Dave  found  that  Devlin  had  prepared  his 
plans  on  his  own  lines  and  there  was  cause 
for  pride  in  this.  It  was  an  open  tribute  to 
Dave  Ross,  and  he  accepted  it  smilingly, 
and  proceeded  to  do  exactly  the  same 
thing.  "Even  the  Opposition  endorse  us," 


THE   RETURNS   FROM    ST.    MARY  S.         IQ 

he  said.  "But  it  is  always  that  way.  We 
lead  and  the  others  follow." 

This  plan,  in  brief,  was  to  establish  the 
straightest  possible  line  of  operation  and 
to  connect  the  outlying  points  by  the  best 
and  swiftest  messengers,  so  that  the  col- 
lector of  the  returns  with  his  relays  of 
horses  could  gather  up  the  precious  bits 
of  paper  as  he  sped  along.  The  same  plan 
and  the  same  route  made  the  contest  a  race 
actual  and  direct. 

Southern  Maryland  roads,  unlike  the 
people  down  there,  are  not  all  good.  Na- 
ture, more  than  man,  has  made  a  few  ex- 
ceptions; but  Nature  did  so  many  things 
for  Southern  Maryland  that  its  derelic- 
tions in  public  highways  may  be  pardoned. 
These  roads  have  bends  and  angles  that 
represent  what  Southern  Marylanders  have 
lost  during  the  several  centuries  in  not 
finding  out  that  the  shortest  distance  be- 
tween points  is  not  in  triangles  or  semi- 
circles. But,  like  the  Southern  Maryland- 
ers, the  roads  amble  peacefully  and  com- 
fortably in-about  and  round-about  and  get 
to  their  destinations  as  certainly,  if  not  as 
promptly,  as  if  the  Czar  of  Russia  had 
been  road  dictator  and  had,  with  his  historic 
rule,  drawn  his  straight  lines.  This  made 
it  difficult  for  quick  work,  but  Dave  Ross 


2O         THE    RETURNS    FROM   ST.    MARYS. 

was  a  man  who  often  said  that  the  one 
thing  in  life  that  made  him  uncomfortable 
was  to  be  fettered  by  facts.  And  he  sel- 
dom was,  especially  when  he  was  after 
facts. 

The  situation  then,  was  this:  Two  special 
trains,  each  with  an  engine,  tender  and 
passenger  car,  slept  with  disturbed  dreams 
at  the  end  of  the  railroad,  ready  to  wake 
the  moment  the  throttle  was  pulled,  and 
leap  forward  on  the  race.  They  were  side 
by  side — one,  Dave  Ross',  on  the  main 
track;  the  other,  Devlin's,  on  the  side 
track.  The  man  who  first  reached  his  train 
captured  the  single  line  track  and  com- 
manded the  situation.  If  the  arrivals  of 
the  messengers  were  simultaneous,  there 
would  have  to  be  quick  work,  and  Dave 
Ross  had  taken  the  precaution  to  see  that 
the  advantage  would  be  on  his  side,  for 
the  other  fellow  had  to  get  off  the  switch, 
before  he  could  take  the  main  track. 

But  behind  the  engines  was  that  drive  of 
over  thirty  miles  with  dozens  of  side  con- 
nections, absolutely  necessary  to  the  full- 
ness and  accuracy  of  the  returns.  That 
thirty  odd  miles  with  all  its  side  issues 
must  be  made  within  four  hours,  and  bless 
your  peaceful  soul,  it  took  grit  to  do  it. 

Election  day  dawned  bright  and  fair.     At 


THE   RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY'S.        21 

six  o'clock  P.  M.  the  American  sovereign 
had  completed  his  reign  and  had  amiably 
surrendered  his  sceptre  to  his  politicians 
for  the  other  three  hundred  and  sixty  four 
days  of  the  year.  It  was  just  growing 
dark,  and  the  people  crowded  around  the 
polling  places  to  learn  the  result.  The 
counting  of  the  votes  proceeded  regularly, 
except  for  occasional  interruptions  by 
thirst.  At  each  one  of  these  places,  Ross 
and  Devlin  each  had  a  messenger,  and  the 
messengers  were  urging  haste  and  were 
restless  under  the  discussions  about  marks 
on  Abraham  Lincoln's  ear  instead  of  op- 
posite his  nose,  or  of  irregularities  of  the 
stamp  on  the  sick-looking  hickory  tree 
which  never  grew  any  larger  after  Andrew 
Jackson  died. 

"The  returns!  For  the  Lord's  sake, 
hurry;  we  want  the  returns,"  they  would 
say,  and  the  men  counting  would  resent 
this  and  light  fresh  cigars. 

When  a  man  races,  he  wants  to  be  near 
the  other  fellow  or  to  know  that  the  other 
fellow  is  far  behind  him.  This  was  a  mat- 
ter of  great  big  chances  and  very  small 
margins,  and  the  racers  therefore  remained 
together;  so  while  the  messengers  from  the 
different  districts  and  sections  were 
speeding  to  make  connections,  Ross  and 


22        THE   RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY'S. 

Devlin  were  quietly  waiting  for  the  be- 
ginning of  the  final  race.  They  knew,  for 
instance,  that  the  sixty-five  mile  run  up 
Calvert  County  was  on,  and  that  it  was 
superb;  that  it  began  with  a  heroic  dash — 
ten  of  the  best  oarsmen  of  the  bay  in  each 
boat  across  the  angry  waters — then  a  con- 
test of  horsemanship  with  every  nerve 
strained,  with  nostrils  smoking  and  speed 
unslacked,  to  end  in  the  early  hours  at 
Upper  Marlboro',  which  would  arouse 
from  its  couch  when  the  dust-covered  vic- 
tor stood  in  his  stirrups  and  fired  his  two 
revolvers  to  announce  his  triumph,  as  the 
poor  steed  jumped  its  final  length  through 
the  streets  to  the  telegraph  office. 

But  Calvert  be  hanged!  It  was  St. 
Mary's  that  was  needed  to  complete  the 
tale,  and  so  from  St.  Inigoes,  Valley  Lee, 
Patuxent,  Milestone,  Bay  and  Island  Dis- 
tricts, the  men  were  coming,  coming,  com- 
ing, and  Ross  and  Devlin  were  waiting; 
their  horses  neighing;  their  men  looking 
through  the  darkness  with  alert  ears  to 
catch  the  sounds  of  hoofs  and  wheels. 

Dave  re-entered  the  modest  tavern  and 
talked  in  his  superior  way  to  those  who 
had  grown  mellow  under  the  evening's 
hospitality.  "Old  man  Jimson  used  to 
say,"  he  declared,  "that  whiskey  never 


THE   RETURNS   F»OM    ST.    MARY  S.         23 

killed  a  man,  but  it  got  him  so  he'd  die. 
But  what  of  that?  What  of  that?  Who 
gets  out  of  this  world  alive?  Think  of 
some  of  these  goody-goody  folks  who 
swear  off  on  earth,  expecting  to  make  up 
for  lost  time  in  the  world  to  come,  and  who 
find  out  that  they've  struck  a  Prohibition 
town  on  the  other  side  of  the  Styx.  Once 
more,  Colonel,  once  more,  and  the  gentle- 
men will  take  the  same;  only  make  it  a 
little  better,  please;  some  of  the  best 
quality  this  time.  And  Mr.  Devlin — it  is 
Mr.  Devlin,  I  believe — won't  you  join  us?" 

Devlin  had  just  entered  the  hall,  which 
served  both  for  office  and  loafing  place,  on 
hio  way  to  his  room,  and  he  paused  to  ac- 
knowledge the  invitation,  and  decline  it. 
He  then  went  on  upstairs. 

"Won't  take  a  drink  in  Southern  Mary- 
land! Gentlemen,  that  is  rank  treason. 
But  he'll  feel  like  taking  a  barrel  to- 
morrow when  he  sees  the  paper  of  the 
people.  Won't  he,  gentlemen?" 

"He  will,"  was  the  Colonel's  response, 
"but  it  seems  to  me,  sah,  that  you're  doing 
very  little  drinking  yourself,  sah;  you 
haven't  touched  your  liquor,  sah." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Ross  cheerily, 
"I  have  to  wait  until  after  office  hours." 

It  was  past  eight,  and  it  was  nearing  the 


24        THE   RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY'S. 

time  for  starting.  Devlin  came  down 
wrapped  in  woolens,  and  Ross  arose  and 
put  on  his  overcoat.  Presently  both  stood 
together  on  the  front  porch,  looking  si- 
lently into  the  night.  Suddenly  Devlin 
turned  and  said  to  Ross: 

"Mr.  Ross,  is  this  to  be  a  square  deal?" 

"I  don't  think  I  like  that  insinuation," 
replied  Ross. 

"I  mean  no  offence;  nothing  personal, 
but — well,  in  other  years  there  have  been 
troubles." 

"You  mean  the  time  your  man,  knowing 
I  was  riding  a  timid  horse,  strewed  news- 
papers all  along  the  road."  Ross  said  this 
with  great  satisfaction  to  himself. 

"No,  I  mean  nothing  but  the  plain  ques- 
tion." 

"Well,"  said  Ross  after  a  pause,  "I  might 
ask  the  same  thing  of  you,  but  I  don't  care 
to,  and  in  a  case  like  this  where  it  is  paper 
against  paper,  it  is  man  against  man,  and 
you  will  probably  do  just  as  I  shall  prob- 
ably do — anything  to  win.  Is  not  that 
true?" 

Devlin  laughed  in  a  dry  sort  of  way,  and 
replied,  "Well,  I  suppose  we  will  have  to  let 
it  go  at  that." 

Then  came  a  distant  disturbance,  a 
thump — thud — thud,  a  dull,  drum  jolt  and 


THE  RETURNS   FROM   ST.   MARY'S.        25 

quick  patter,  patter,  patter  on  the  sleeping 
earth,  and  in  the  bright  moonlight  was  a 
rising  cloud,  and  suddenly  in  the  midst  of 
it  came  a  whoop  of  victory,  and  Ross  had 
forgot  to  say  good-night  to  his  rival  and 
had  grasped  the  returns  and  leaped  into 
the  carriage  and  a  whisp  of  the  whip  had 
sent  the  anxious  horses — that  knew  as  well 
as  anybody  that  a  race  was  in  the  wind- 
forward  on  the  course. 

"Ahead  as  usual,"  exclaimed  Ross,  but 
he  at  once  began  to  incite  the  colored  per- 
son who  was  holding  the  reins  to  speed  the 
animals  to  greater  effort.  "By  the  way, 
didn't  I  send  you  a  rabbit  dog  once?" 

"Yas,  sah,  ye  did.  Mighty  good  dog 
'till  he  done  got  ruined." 

"Ruined?    How?" 

"Done  sot  hisself  up  fer  er  coon  dog. 
Good  rabbit  dog  but  not  ernuf  fer  coons." 

"Shows  what  pride  will  do?"  remarked 
Dave,  wisely. 

The  ride  was  eight  miles.  With  the  good 
start,  Ross  felt  in  a  measure  secure,  but  this 
did  not  keep  him  from  urging  the  negro  to 
do  his  best  with  a  faithful  promise  of  a  dog 
that  would  be  enough  for  coons  or  any 
other  beasts  of  the  forest  And  the  vision 
of  a  real  coon  dog  soon  began  its  work, 
for  the  negro,  although  busy  with  the 


26         THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY'S. 

horses,  could  not  help  humming  a  song. 
Dave  appreciated  it,  because  the  effect  of 
the  chorus  could  be  seen  in  the  speed  of 
the  horses.  This  was  the  song: 

De  ole  man  coon  am  a  sly  ole  cuss, 

Git  erlong  coon  dog  now, 
De  lady  coon  am  a  leetle  bit  wuss, 

Git  erhong  coon  dog  now. 

Oh,  we  hunts  'em  when  de  night  gits 

dark, 

Git  erlong  coon  dog  now, 
'En  dey  runs  when  dey  hears  de  big  dogs 

bark, 
Git  erlong  coon  dog  now. 

But  'deed  ole  coon  hit's  no  use  to  try, 

Git  erlong  coon  dog  now, 
Fur  when  we  comes  out  you'se  got  to 
die, 

Git  erlong  coon  dog  now. 

"I'd  ruther  hab  a  good  coon  dog,"  ?aid 
the  negro,  whose  name  was  Zeke,  "than 
anything  else  in  this  here  world." 

"You'll  get  it,"  replied  Dave.  "But  you 
must  drive  for  it.  Git  erlong,  good  horse 
now,  and  be  there  ahead  of  the  record." 

The  horses  went  over  the  uncertain  roads 
without  regard  to  ruts  or  tracks,  sometimes 


THE   RETURNS   FROM    ST.    MARY'S.         27 

on  a  dead  run,  and  the  cool  November  air 
cut  the  face  and  stirred  the  soul.  The  night 
was  perfect,  a  full  moon  shining  from  a 
cloudless  sky  and  stars  outdoingthemselves 
in  trying  to  assist  in  the  illumination.  The 
eight  miles  were  made  within  the  hour  and 
at  the  second  point  on  the  journey,  where 
the  returns  from  Quantico  were  to  inter- 
cept the  race,  Dave's  usual  audience  had 
assembled.  There  was  a  cheer  and  Dave 
simply  said,  "Thank  you,  gentlemen;  but 
where  is  my  man  from  Quantico?  Is  he 
here?" 

"He  is  not,  sah;  bad  roads,  sah." 

And  Dave  said  something  that  cannot  be 
printed.  And  yet  he  had  no  bad  habits. 

It  was  a  case  of  waiting,  and  Dave's 
spirit  chafed;  but  in  a  few  minutes  he  re- 
vived, and  after  telling  his  friends  that  his 
rival  had  probably  decided  to  turn  the 
other  way  and  take  the  water  route  up  the 
Chesapeake,  he  became  for  a  moment  his 
buoyant  self. 

"It's  hard  waiting,  as  Aunt  Mary  said 
when  Uncle  Cyrus  refused  to  die  on 
schedule  time  and  the  hot  dinner  for  the 
mourners  got  cold;  but  it's  all  right.  Glad 
to  have  a  rest  and  to  see  you  gentlemen. 
Lovely  night!  Glorious!  glorious!  glori- 
ous! By  the  way,  Bob,  how  did  that  bird 
dog  get  along?" 


28         THE    RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY'S. 

"To  tell  you  th-  truth,  Colonel,  he  got 
along  too  well.  His  idea  of  a  bird  was  a 
chicken.  I  was  obliged  to  get  rid  of  him." 

"Queer,  that  was  a  blooded  dog." 

"Just  so,  Colonel,  just  so.  He  preferred 
my  fancy  breeds  of  poultry." 

"That's  one  on  me,  gentlemen,  and — " 

But  just  then  there  was  a  rushing  sound 
with  horses  on  a  run  coming  up  the  road 
straight  towards  the  group.  And  from  the 
other  direction  came  another  sound  of  pat- 
tering hoofs.  Devlin  had  arrived  and 
almost  at  the  exact  moment  the  messenger 
had  reached  the  place. 

"Is  it  for  Ross,"  asked  Dave  quickly. 

"No,  Devlin." 

"Here,"  said  Devlin,  and  hastily  looking 
at  the  returns  to  see  if  they  were  all  right, 
he  entered  his  second  carriage  with  the 
fresh  horses  and  was  off  and  away  without 
a  word  to  anyone. 

It  was  ten  minutes  before  Ross*  man 
came,  and  it  seemed  ten  centuries.  But 
Dave  knew  his  team  on  the  second  relay 
was  the  swifter  of  the  two  and  he  kept  his 
nerve.  He  was  sitting  in  the  carriage 
peering  through  the  night,  waiting  for  a 
sound  and  oblivious  to  the  presence  of  his 
friends.  Presently  the  hard  knocks  on  the 
road  told  of  a  horse  running  at  its  best,  and 


THE   RETURNS    FROM    ST.    MARY  S.         2Q 

almost  before  the  words  can  be  spoken,  the 
papers  were  in  Dave's  hands  and  his  own 
horses,  the  fresh  ones,  of  course,  were  leap- 
ing through  the  night. 

There  was  no  joking  this  time;  not  even 
the  mention  of  a  dog,  and  those  seven 
miles  were  travelled  faster  than  they  had 
ever  been  before,  z.nd  the  joy  of  it  all  was 
that  at  the  next  stage  Dave  saw  Devlin 
waiting.  Devlin's  returns  had  not  arrived; 
Dave's  had.  Luck  unspeakable!  His  fright 
was  now  over. 

"Howdy-do  and  good-bye,"  and  he  was 
off  with  his  fresh  team  of  glorious  bays,  as 
proud  as  emperors  and  as  swift  as  the 
breeze. 

Nine  miles  faded  away  well  within  the 
hour  and  Dave  was  at  the  last  stretch  of 
the  race,  ahead,  far  ahead  of  his  rival. 

Eight  miles  more  and  then  the  special 
train,  and  victory! 

Why  was  that  messenger  late?  The 
stupid  fool!  Did  he  not  know  that  every 
moment  was  precious!  What  could  have 
happened!  Great  Jupiter!  more  delay! 
Hear  that  watch  tick!  Every  second  is  a 
day;  every  minute  a  year!  Not  even  yet 
does  he  come.  But  what's  that?  The  pat- 
ter, patter!  Hurry,  for  heaven's  sake, 
hurry! 


30        THE   RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY  S. 

"Horse  stumbled.  Fell.  Broke  my 
arm." 

Dave  heard  all  .his,  but  broken  arms 
were  trifles.  "Send  doctor's  bill  to  office," 
he  called,  as  he  grabbed  the  returns,  and  in 
a  minute  he  was  on  his  way  with  Sam — old 
reliable,  never  beaten  Sam — wielding  the 
whip  over  the  finest  pair  of  horses  in  the 
State,  horses  that  were  tearing  up  the  road 
like  a  whirlwind. 

It  happened  that  less  than  a  half  mile 
from  the  place  where  the  trains  were  wait- 
ing was  a  bridge  across  a  very  respectable 
stream,  and  for  over  two  miles  before  the 
bridge  was  reached  was  a  flat  marsh 
country  with  a  road  meandering  through  it 
in  such  a  fashion  that  it  kept  travellers  in 
sight  of  one  another  for  almost  the  entire 
distance. 

It  also  happened  that  when  Dave  was 
well  out  of  the  woods  upon  this  winding 
road  and  Sam  was  keeping  the  horses  to 
the  top  of  their  speed,  a  shadowy  some- 
thing moved  along  the  horizon  and  Dave 
saw  it. 

Cold  chills  ran  through  his  veins.  He 
took  the  whip  from  Sam's  hands  and 
lashed  the  faithful  beasts  until  Sam  cried 
out  in  protest. 


THE   RETURNS   FROM    ST.    MARY*S.         3! 

"Kill  them,  will  I?  And  you  too,  you 
nigger,  if  you  don't  go  faster!  Great 
heavens,  man!  He's  gaining  on  us — gain- 
ing— GAINING.  Here,  give  me  that  whip 
again!  For  God's  sake,  go — GO — GO." 
This  in  frenzy  to  the  horses,  and  then  he 
stood  up  and  looked  back,  and  the  spectre 
was  measuring  its  steady  lengths  across  the 
marsh  road. 

Dave's  mind  was  working  intensely.  A 
half  mile  beyond  the  bridge  was  victory, 
but  it  might  as  well  be  a  thousand  miles  if 
the  horseman  kept  his  gait,  for  his  own 
team  was  giving  out. 

Suddenly  the  thought  he  had  been  seek- 
ing came  like  an  inspiration. 

"His  horse  may  beat  me,  but  his  legs 
can't,"  and  with  the  genius  of  a  general  he 
laid  his  plans. 

"He  can't  swim  the  river,  he  must  cross 
that  bridge!"  That  was  plain. 

And  when  the  carriage  passed  to  the 
other  side,  Dave  and  Sam  ran  back  and 
began  to  throw  the  loose  planks  overboard 
until  a  gap  of  seven  feet  had  been  made, 
and  Dave  had  said,  the  county  might  send 
the  bill  to  the  paper.  And  then  Dave  or- 
dered Sam  to  turn  the  team  around,  block 
the  other  end  of  the  bridge  securely  with 
the  horses  and  the  carriage,  and  to  do 


32        THE   RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY  S. 

everything,  except  murder,  to  delay  the 
Opposition.  All  this  was  done  in  feverish 
haste,  and  the  orders  were  shouted  back  as 
Dave  jumped  forward  on  a  dead  run,  his 
pockets  full  of  copy,  his  long  legs  measur- 
ing the  half  mile  of  road  to  the  special  train 
in  marvellous  strides.  But  Dave  had  been 
a  champion  sprinter  at  college  and  he  knew 
his  powers. 

The  spectre  was  approaching  the  bridge 
and  its  human  aspect  grew  at  closer  range. 
It  was  coming  so  fast  that  Sam  in  mortal 
terror  lest  it  fall  into  the  gap  of  the  bridge, 
called  out: 

"You  can't  git  over;  big  hole  in  the 
bridge,  sah." 

Therewas  a  slackening  of  speed;  then  the 
rider  saw  in  the  moonlight  and  the  horse 
saw  too,  but  the  animal  arose  in  the  air  and 
when  it  landed  it  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  gap. 

But  the  carriage  and  the  horses,  crouched 
on  their  all  fours,  blocked  the  bridge  at  the 
other  end. 

The  horseman  and  the  horse — they 
seemed  part  and  parcel  of  the  same  mach- 
ine— whispered  something  to  each  other  or 
they  seemed  to  do  so,  and  without  stop- 
ping they  arose  again  and  when  they  came 
down,  they  were  over  everything,  and  the 


THE   RETURNS   FROM    ST.    MARY  S.         33 

man  leaned  forward  and  threw  his  arms 
around  the  beast  and  loved  her,  and  she 
skipped  on  in  the  pure  delight  of  having 
done  it. 


Sam  and  the  team  overtook  Dave  Ross 
and  carried  him  on. 

"Deed,  Kernel,  hit  couldn't  er  ben  no 
'uman  horse  ner  person;  hit  were  a  ghost; 
hit  jest  sailed  right  over  dat  bridge,  'en 
it's  feet  didn't  tech  nothin'  no  how,  'en  hit 
had  wings,  'cause  I  seen  'em;  no,  sah,  hit 
couldn't  er — " 

But  just  then  the  whistle  of  Devlin's 
special  blew  a  triumphant  blast,  as  the 
train  rounded  the  curve  on  the  way  to  the 
telegraph  station. 

***** 

"That  night,"  resumed  the  Major,  "I 
waited  and  waited.  Dave  had  never  failed 
us.  Could  he  do  it  this  time?  Impossible! 
The  press  room  and  the  composing  room 
and  all  the  other  rooms  rang  their  bells 
and  blew  their  whistles  and  blew  their 
whistles  and  rang  their  bells  and  messen- 
gers were  running  to  me  saying  it  was  time 
to  go  to  press.  But  I  kept  on  waiting,  and 
I  waited  a  few  minutes  over  the  limit  be- 
fore I  let  the  paper  go.  Then  I  sent  the 
3 


34        THE   RETURNS  FROM   ST.   MARY  S. 

boy  to  get  the  first  copy  he  could  of  our 
despised  contemporary,  and  when  he 
brought  it,  I  fell  back  in  my  chair.  It  had 
the  returns  from  St.  Mary's,  and  we  were 
whipped. 

"Dave?  He  came  in  a  couple  of  days 
afterwards  and  wearily  asked  if  we  had 
heard  from  St.  Mary's  county.  Then  I 
told  him  what  I  had  heard.  Young  Devlin 
was  a  son  of  old  Colonel  Devlin  of  the 
Confederate  Cavalry,  who  was  never  at 
home  except  on  the  back  of  a  horse,  and 
young  Jack  Devlin  could  sit  on  a  horse 
before  he  could  walk  and  he  was  the  young 
'un  who  was  in  at  the  death  of  every  fox, 
who  jumped  all  the  hurdles,  took  all  the 
fences,  and  won  most  of  the  tournaments. 
Jumping  the  gap  and  the  team  was  easy 
business  for  him — he  would  have  jumped 
the  whole  river  if  necessary,  for  he  was  on 
Kate,  the  famous  Kate,  who  knew  and 
loved  him  like  as  a  sister  loves  a  brother. 
Dave's  man  Sam  had  cut  Devlin's  harness 
and  disabled  his  carriage,  but  Devlin  had 
expected  that  and  Kate  was  in  hiding  for 
the  emergency.  And  the  boy  and  the  mare 
won  the  victory. 

"After  that  the  papers  got  together  and 
there  was  no  more  racing,  no  more  spe- 
cials at  a  hundred  dollars  a  line,  no  more 


THE  RETURNS   FROM   ST.    MARY'S. 

groaning  from  the  business  office.  And 
Dave?  He  got  a  place  in  the  State  De- 
partment and  married  a  widow,  and  the 
widow  and  the  Classified  Service  have 
tamed  his  impetuous  soul,  and  if  anybody 
mentions  dogs  he  changes  the  subject." 

The  Major  arose  and  said  good-night 
and  as  he  went  out  he  was  murmuring, 
"The  good  old  days.  Oh,  the  good,  good, 
old,  old  days!" 


A  HERO  IN  THE  FLESH. 


w, 


HEN  Oliver  Cromwell  was  bestowed 
with  plenteous  water  upon  the  Cheston 
baby  great  things  were  expected.  The 
greatness  came.  After  a  few  normal  years, 
Oliver  began  to  take  on  flesh.  His  par- 
ents were  the  richest  people  in  the  county 
and  he  was  the  only  child.  They  hastened 
to  do  everything  possible  to  check  the 
calamity.  But  the  less  Oliver  ate,  the 
more  he  grew.  The  air  and  the  water  and 
all  the  elements  conspired  to  make  him  fat. 
It  was  not  obesity,  or  any  other  of  the  big 
words,  but  a  simple  and  appalling  surplus. 
He  actually  seemed  to  bulge  out  of  every 
button-hole,  and  one  good  dame  declared 
that  she  honestly  believed  he  had  his 
pockets  full  of  himself. 

Of  course  Salem  laughed,  but  there  came 
a  time  when  the  people  got  used  to  him, 
and  when  his  fine  mind  developed  its  ex- 
cellence in  the  public  school  and  carried  off 
the  honors  at  the  academy,  and  when  after 
the  death  of  his  parents  he  succeeded  to  the 
wealth  and  became  the  leading  person  of 


A   HERO   IN   THE   FLESH.  37 

the  village,  there  was,  in  his  presence  at 
least,  a  general  and  respectful  avoidance  of 
weights  and  measures. 

Through  it  all  Mr.  Cheston  was  stately 
and  calm.  He  pursued  the  tenor  of  his 
way  with  a  deportment  that  was  perfect, 
with  an  affability  that  never  languished. 
But  he  could  not  steel  himself  against  acci- 
dents, especially  those  accidents  that  befall 
human  nature  without  respect  to  size,  age 
or  position.  It  seems  incongruous  to  say 
that  he  fell  in  love.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the 
precipitation  was  neither  instantaneous  nor 
sensational.  It  was  not  the  boulder  rolling 
from  the  precipice;  rather  was  it  the  glacier 
that  had  been  gradually  moving  for  years 
but  insensible  of  its  own  motion  until  it 
reached  the  breaking  off  place.  The  warm- 
ing influence  which  had  slowly  melted  and 
moved  the  heart  of  Mr.  Cheston  was  as 
gentle  as  it  was  unconscious.  The  glacier 
does  not  realize  that  it  is  the  small  stream 
flowing  beneath  its  imperturbable  calm  that 
carries  it  forward.  Mr.  Cheston  was  simi- 
larly uniformed.  On  his  way  to  his  office 
every  morning,  he  passed  a  certain  yard. 
He  was  always  punctual — more  punctual 
than  anyone  else  in  the  town  except  Mr. 
James  Cartwell,  who  breakfasted  at  seven 
as  regularly  as  the  clock  struck.  When 


38  A   HERO   IN  THE   FLESH. 

Mr.  Cartwell  started  to  his  store  at  half- 
past  seven,  his  daughter  Mary  accompan- 
ied him  to  the  gate  and  after  bidding  him 
good-bye  turned  to  her  flowers  which 
made  the  Cartwell  front  yard  the  most 
fragrant  and  the  most  beautiful  in  all  the 
neighborhood.  At  five  minutes  to  eight 
Mr.  Cheston  came  along  and  invariably 
stopped  to  say  good  morning  and  to  dis- 
cuss the  growth  of  particular  plants  in 
which  he  had  an  intelligent  interest.  He 
was  generally  rewarded  with  a  decoration 
for  his  button-hole.  He  soon  came  to  ex- 
pect this  and  for  some  reason  which  he 
could  not  quite  understand  he  resented  in 
his  mind  the  presence  of  a  third  party  at 
these  morning  meetings.  But  often  the 
third  party  was  there — young  Stephen 
Moswell,  slender,  dapper  and  bright,  a  re- 
cent graduate  from  the  military  school, 
who  seemed  fonder  of  the  front  yard  and 
the  flowers  than  Mr.  Cheston  himself,  and 
who  often  lingered  after  Mr.  Cheston  had 
passed  on  to  his  office. 

One  morning  Miss  Mary  was  missing 
from  the  yard  and  the  day  did  not  seem  to 
pass  as  smoothly  as  usual  to  Mr.  Cheston. 
The  next  and  the  next  went  by.  He  was  a 
practical  man,  giving  his  time  and  thought 
to  practical  matters,  but  after  the  fourth 


A   HERO   IN   THE   FLESH.  39 

day  he  spent  an  hour  in  honest  introspec- 
tion, and  it  was  then  he  discovered  that  a 
little  current  of  something  had  been  all  the 
time  flowing  beneath  his  unknowing  heart. 
He  also  found  that  Miss  Cartwell  had  gone 
away  on  a  visit,  and  he  felt,  much  to  the 
distress  of  his  normal  reasoning  powers, 
that  it  was  not  right  for  her  to  go  and  leave 
him  alone  in  his  unsatisfied  longings  for 
five  minute  chats  with  one  on  whom  he 
had  never  called  socially  in  all  his  life. 

He  had  never  cared  for  society  in  the 
sense  of  formal  visiting.  He  always  felt 
uncomfortable  in  a  crowded  parlor.  So  it 
happened  that  almost  every  evening  he  was 
to  be  found  at  his  office  with  Dr.  Flook,  a 
dry,  thin  man  with  a  sharp  face  and  a  posi- 
tive tongue,  the  usual  medical  autocrat 
who  rules  small  towns  and  declares  that 
each  generation  he  brings  into  the  world  is 
worse  than  its  predecessor. 

On  the  fifth  evening  after  Miss  Cart- 
well's  departure  Mr.  Cheston  was  late  in 
reaching  the  office  and  the  doctor  opened 
upon  him  rather  savagely: 

"Look  here,  Cheston,"  he  said,  "you 
haven't  been  up  to  the  mark  lately.  You're 
absent  minded.  I  believe  you've  got  the 
malaria.  That  is  the  fortune  of  benefac- 
tors. They  suffer  for  doing  good.  If  you 


4O  A   HERO    IN   THE   FLESH. 

hadn't  gone  round  bothering  with  sani- 
tation and  such  things  you  would  have  kept 
your  health  and  you  wouldn't  have  ruined 
my  practice.  What  this  community  needs 
is  not  reform  but  quinine  and  whiskey; 
they  want  to  be  sick  so  as  to  get  dosed,  and 
you  are  interfering  with  their  legitimate 
pleasures  by  trying  to  make  Salem  too 
healthy." 

"That's  something  they'll  never  accuse 
you  of,  Doctor,"  replied  Cheston. 

But  it  was  evident  that  he  was  not  up  to 
his  general  average.  There  were  fits  of 
abstraction  in  which  the  doctor  scored  his 
points  so  easily  that  he  finally  arose  in  dis- 
gust and  told  his  rival  to  take  six  grains  on 
going  to  bed  and  two  grains  every  two 
hours  the  next  day  until  he  had  taken  ten. 
Mr.  Cheston  shortly  afterwards  closed  the 
office  and  walked  slowly  home. 

It  was  curious  how  the  details  he  had 
never  dwelt  upon  before  came  before  his 
mind.  She  had  long  eyelashes  and  a  per- 
fect nose.  Her  mouth  was  small  and  al- 
most a  cupid's  bow.  Her  complexion, 
thanks  to  fresh  air  and  regular  hours,  was 
a  match  to  the  tea  roses,  and  there  was  a 
fullness  and  freshness  of  health  in  her  solid 
sunny  face  that  seemed  as  natural  as  a  crop 
of  full  blown  sweet  peas.  It  had  never 


A   HERO   IN   THE   FLESH.  41 

struck  him  as  being  extraordinary  any 
more  than  the  blossoms  on  the  vines,  but 
when  he  began  to  think  about  the  other 
girls  of  the  town  she  seemed  like  a  hardy 
annual  in  a  garden  of  pale  exotics,  which 
was  a  perfectly  foolish  comparison,  for 
there  were  many  other  girls  in  Salem  who 
were  ruddy-cheeked  and  weather-proof. 
Then  it  came  upon  him  that  he  always 
liked  to  see  her  with  her  hat  in  hand, 
for  her  hair  was  soft  and  flowing  and  pic- 
turesquely irregular,  like  the  Wandering 
Jew  in  the  hanging  basket  on  the  porch, 
only  of  course  it  wasn't  green,  but  was  of 
that  indefinable  hue  which  the  sun  some- 
times leaves  in  the  clouds  after  it  has  passed 
the  horizon.  And  he  remembered,  too,  that 
she  was  erect  and  graceful  in  form  and  that 
she  reminded  him  of  heroines  he  had  read 
about  in  history,  and  he  began  to  com- 
pound them  and  evolve  a  perfect  com- 
posite. But  after  all,  it  was  her  eyes — her 
clear  blue  eyes  as  perfect  as  an  October 
sky  and  as  changeful  as  bubbling  springs 
that  looked  most  brightly  upon  him  in  his 
solitude.  Then  all  of  these  things  came 
over  him  in  a  wonderful  wave,  and  inflating 
his  lungs  to  their  utmost  he  gave  a  sigh, 
and  a  sigh  of  this  kind  from  three  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  of  love  and  emotion  made 


42  A   HERO   IN  THE   FLESH. 

the  floor  creak,  for  he  had  reached  his 
home  and  was  walking  up  and  down,  see- 
ing "and  thinking  as  he  had  never  done 
before. 

Dr.  Flook  had  been  a  surgeon  in  the 
war  with  Mexico.  "In  one  of  our  battles," 
he  was  fond  of  relating,  "a  most  extra- 
ordinary thing  happened.  The  fire  was 
terrific;  the  bullets  were  whistling  all 
around  us,  and  at  brief  intervals  pieces  of 
shell  hissed  through  the  air  in  uncomfort- 
able nearness.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  we 
looked  up  in  a  tree,  and  there,  sitting  as 
calmly  as  if  we  were  a  thousand  miles  away 
and  war  was  never  known,  was  a  mother 
bird  attending  to  her  duty  of  bringing  forth 
another  feathered  generation.  It  was  per- 
fect peace  in  the  midst  of  strife." 

The  doctor  sometimes  went  further  and 
likened  this  to  the  town  of  Salem,  "a  quiet 
retired  sort  of  a  place,  sir,  that  is  a  part 
of  the  world,  but  which  attends  to  its  work 
in  its  own  calm  way  and  cares  little  for  the 
strivings  and  the  excitement",  of  this  run- 
away age." 

But  there  came  a  time  when  even  Salem 
was  stirred  from  its  business  centre  to  its 
suburban  circumference,  for  the  war  be- 
tween the  States  had  begun  and  the  men 
who  expected  to  put  it  down  as  they  would 


A  HERO   IN  THE  FLESH.  43 

a  little  riot  were  appalled  at  the  future  and 
were  calling  for  more  troops  and  more 
money  and  more  guns. 

Salem  could  no  longer  hide  in  its  little 
nest  and  every  home  was  filled  with  appre- 
hension. Habit  was  still  dominant  and  all 
looked  to  Mr.  Oliver  Cromwell  Cheston 
for  the  initiative.  A  meeting  was  called 
and  the  men  responded  and  with  them 
came  the  women  all  trying  to  keep  up  a 
brave  front  but  with  tears  underneath  every 
nervous  laugh.  The  tension  was  strong 
when  Dr.  Flook  in  a  business  like  manner 
arose  and  asked  Mr.  Cheston  to  take  the 
chair  and  it  increased  as  the  proceedings 
went  on  and  the  call  was  made  for  volun- 
teers. The  first  to  answer  was  Mr.  Ches- 
ton. Dr.  Flook  was  next  and  then  the 
others  followed  until  forty-two  had  re- 
sponded. There  was  a  pause.  Then  Dr. 
Flook,  more  nervous  than  the  people  had 
ever  seen  him,  ariose  and  said: 

"I  move  that  Mr.  Cheston  be  elected 
honorary  captain  of  this  company." 

Diplomatic  Doctor  Flook!  Always  equal 
to  an  occasion,  he  was  worth  his  weight 
in  gold  now!  The  vote  was  put  by  the 
doctor  and  carried  unanimously. 

"I  thank  you  for  this  honor,"  said  Mr. 
Cheston  gravely,  "but  we  are  not  here  for 


44  A   HERO   IN   THE   FLESH. 

mere  honors.  I  expect  to  go  with  you  into 
the  field  and  if  I  am  to  have  any  position 
at  all  it  must  be  an  active  one.  I  recog- 
nize perfectly  well  that  I  have  certain  phys- 
ical exaggerations  which  unfit  me  for  com- 
mand, but  I  shall  take  my  place  in  the 
ranks." 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  interrupted  the 
doctor.  "I  move  Mr.  Cheston  be  elected 
captain." 

It  was  carried. 

"My  friends,  I  thank  you  doubly  for  this 
and  I  promise  you  I  will  do  the  best  I  can. 
Now  let  us  proceed  to  business." 

They  wanted  Dr.  Flook  to  be  the  first 
lieutenant  but  he  was  true  to  his  profession 
and  would  take  no  position  except  that  of 
surgeon.  He  nominated  his  young  friend 
Stephen  Moswell  for  the  lieutenancy  and 
within  an  hour  the  organization  was  com- 
plete. 

Thenceforth  Salem  knew  no  quiet.  The 
days  were  taken  up  with  martial  prepar- 
ations; the  nights  with  weeping,  and  before 
the  new  company  had  caught  step  it  was 
ordered  to  the  front.  Never  shall  we  for- 
get the  sight  as  these  heroes  marched 
away  to  the  beating  of  drums  and  the 
breaking  of  hearts, — Captain  Cheston,  calm 
and  majestic,  plowing  the  sands  and  grow- 


A  HERO  IN  THE  FLESH.  45 

ing  to  double  proportions  when  contrasted 
with  the  dapper  Lieutenant  Moswell.  With 
all  the  swing  and  dignity  they  could  muster, 
were  the  men,  and  bringing  up  the  rear  was 
Captain  Cheston's  negro  Jim  sitting 
proudly  in  the  buggy  drawn  by  Mr.  Chest- 
on's big  gray  horse. 

The  tearful  mothers  and  sisters  and 
sweethearts  and  boys  and  girls  followed  the 
procession  for  more  than  two  miles  and 
then  tramped  sadly  back  to  the  homes 
which  were  to  know  that  the  desolation  of 
war  is  not  altogether  in  the  march  of 
armies.  And  yet  as  they  walked  and  cried 
there  came  before  them  the  vivid  memory 
of  a  figure  imposing  in  its  pride  and  re- 
splendent in  its  importance — not  the  big 
captain  nor  the  slim  lieutenant  nor  any  of 
the  soldier  boys,  but  Jim — black  Jim — sit- 
ting in  that  buggy  as  if  driving  to  glory. 

This  buggy  was  a  peculiar  vehicle  un- 
usually low  and  built  with  extraordinary 
care.  It  was  the  talk  of  the  town  that  it 
was  stronger  than  a  stone  wagon  or  a  tim- 
ber cart  and  that  nothing  could  break  it 
down.  Of  course  the  various  thicknesses 
and  reinforcements  made  it  heavy  but  the 
big  gray  horse  which  drew  it  and  which 
had  drawn  Mr.  Cheston  in  it  for  many 
years  was  a  magnificent  animal  more  than 
equal  to  the  task. 


46  A   HERO  IN   THE  FLESH. 

The  day  was  warm  and  the  roads  were 
bad.  But  for  three  hours  the  big  captain 
led  his  men.  Then  they  came  to  a  halt  for 
dinner.  Captain  Cheston  and  Dr.  Flook 
stood  under  the  shade  and  talked. 

"Surgeon,"  said  the  captain,  "you  will 
probably  recall  that  in  one  of  his  cam- 
paigns— I  think  it  was  over  the  Alps — Na- 
poleon rode  at  the  head  of  his  troops  in  a 
state  carriage." 

"I  do  not  recall  it,"  replied  the  doctor, 
"but  I  suppose  you  are  right." 

"I  remember  it  distinctly,"  and  then  with 
a  nervous  laugh,  as  if  not  exactly  proud  of 
what  he  was  going  to  say,  he  added,  "I'm 
not  a  Napoleon  exactly  but  I  find  that  un- 
less I  follow  his  precedent  you'll  have  to 
have  another  captain." 

"That's  all  right.  The  wonder  is  that 
you've  walked  this  far." 

"But  the  men,  Surgeon!  How  do  you 
think  they'll  take  it?"  he  asked. 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  the  doctor  as 
he  moved  away,  and  soon  the  new  soldiers 
were  asking  their  captain  to  occupy  his 
familiar  place  in  the  buggy. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  that  buggy  Cap- 
tain Cheston  would  never  have  reached  the 
front  and  this  story  would  not  have  been 
told,  for  he  could  not  carry  himself,  and  no 


A  HERO   IN   THE  FLESH.  47 

horse's  back  was  strong  enough  for  his 
weight,  granting  of  course  that  he  were 
able  to  do  the  impossible  by  sitting  astride 
the  animal. 

Coming  from  a  town  on  the  border  be- 
tween the  fighting  sections,  the  new  troops 
were  not  long  in  reaching  trouble.  It  oc- 
curred in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day. 
They  were  plodding  along  a  road  of  many 
turns  and  angles  and  thickly  lined  with 
trees.  They  were  very  sore  and  very  blind 
to  the  glories  of  war  and  longing  for  the 
comforts  of  their  town.  Captain  Cheston 
was  sitting  in  the  buggy  and  the  faithful 
Jim  was  half  asleep  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
reins  were  loose  in  his  hands.  Following 
was  the  company. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  noise  ahead,  and  as 
the  buggy  turned  the  bend  of  the  road 
Captain  Cheston  saw  the  enemy  marching 
towards  him.  His  men  had  yet  to  see 
them  and  the  enemy  did  not  seem  to  have 
the  faintest  idea  that  the  figure  they  beheld 
was  in  command  of  troops. 

But  the  doubt  did  not  last.  Standing 
upright  in  the  buggy  Captain  Cheston 
called  in  his  loudest  tones  and  with  the 
most  wonderful  self-command: 

"Surrender!" 

Verily  it  was  enough  to  command  any 


48  A   HERO   IN   THE   FLESH. 

obedience  but  the  men  in  front  were  not 
the  kind  that  took  orders  from  the  enemy. 
They  did  not  surrender.  They  did  not 
even  blanch  with  fear.  They  laughed.  And 
they  were  still  smiling  when  they  got 
ready  for  the  conflict. 

It  was  all  so  quick  that  nobody  to  this 
day  can  tell  exactly  how  it  occurred.  Cap- 
tain Cheston  got  out  of  the  buggy  with  as 
much  dignity  as  he  could  and  gave  the  or- 
ders. There  was  a  roar  from  both  sides 
and  when  the  smoke  cleared  away  the  cap- 
tain was  seen  to  be  holding  himself  up  with 
difficulty.  His  lips  were  tightly  compressed 
and  before  he  could  give  another  order 
a  second  volley  came  from  the  front  and 
the  captain  fell.  Then  the  men  led  by 
Lieutenant  Moswell  rushed  forward 
around  and  beyond  the  prostrate  body;  and 
the  enemy,  evidently  under  the  belief  that 
there  were  several  companies  in  the  rear, 
for  they  could  only  see  to  the  corner  of 
the  road,  broke  and  ran. 

Several  of  the  men  wanted  to  remain 
with  the  prostrate  captain  but  he  waved 
them  on  and  when  they  hesitated  he  spoke 
sharply  and  ordered  them  to  join  their 
company.  Dr.  Flook  had  reached  the  side 
of  his  friend  and  was  seeking  the  wounds. 
He  worked  quickly  and  skillfully  and  stop- 


A   HERO   IN   THE   FLESH.  49 

ped  the  flow  of  blood  and  then  told  the 
captain  that  the  very  best  thing  to  be  done 
was  for  him  to  return  to  Salem.  There 
was  no  hospital  near,  nothing  but  woods 
and  war,  and  unless  he  got  under  cover 
soon  and  had  good  attention  the  result 
would  be  fatal.  Captain  Cheston  had  not 
lost  consciousness  and  although  he  ob- 
jected to  going  back  he  saw  the  wisdom  of 
it  and  the  result  was  that  the  doctor  and 
Jim  fixed  him  as  comfortably  as  possible 
in  the  vehicle  and  the  drive  to  Salem  was 
begun.  Never  did  man  strive  more  to 
avoid  the  ruts  and  rough  places  than  did 
the  steady,  faithful  Jim.  The  captain  was 
suffering  intensely  but  he  stood  the  pain 
like  a  martyr  and  Jim  kept  up  a  running 
stream  of  talk  that  ebbed  only  when  the 
captain  closed  his  eyes  for  an  occasional 
moment  of  sleep.  And  once  in  his  sleep 
he  mentioned  the  name  Mary,  which  Jim 
did  not  understand. 

Some  intuition  told  the  Salem  popula- 
tion, which  was  now  mainly  women  and 
children,  that  news  from  the  front  was 
coming  and  so  people  were  watching. 
Mothers  lay  awake  straining  their  ears  in 
the  hope  and  the  fear  of  catching  the  sound 
during  the  night.  Sweethearts  arose  and 
sat  at  windows,  and  every  whisp  of  the  wind 
4 


SO  A   HERO    IN   THE   FLESH. 

was  magnified  a  hundred  fold.  So  when 
Jim  and  his  charge  reached  within  a  mile 
of  the  village  the  bark  of  a  friendly  dog  on 
the  roadside  started  the  commotion.  The 
anxious  ears  were  sure  they  heard  the  com- 
ing of  a  heavy  vehicle  and  in  some  un- 
known way  the  intelligence  spread  from 
house  to  house  until  the  road  was  suddenly 
filled  with  folks  who  did  not  exactly  under- 
stand why  they  were  there. 

But  amidst  the  doubt  the  old  gray — the 
old  familiar  servant  of  the  captain — hove  in 
sight  and  then  Jim  was  seen  and  then — 
the  captain  himself.  Not  a  word  was  said, 
but  silently,  tearfully,  the  simple  people 
formed  lines  on  each  side  of  the  buggy  and 
escorted  it  through  the  street.  Captain 
Cheston  had  sunk  back  from  the  weariness 
of  the  all-night  journey  and  had  slept 
longer  than  at  any  other  time  and  when  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  saw  his  townspeople 
and  the  town  itself  he  tried  to  smile  and 
speak  but  at  that  very  moment  a  thrill  of 
pain  turned  his  countenance  from  joy  to 
suffering. 

It  was  a  great  problem  what  to  do  with 
him,  but  a  few  practical  women  ran  ahead 
and  by  the  time  the  house  was  reached  they 
had  turned  the  parlor  into  a  bed-room,  for 
it  was  evident  that  they  could  never  carry 


A  HERO   IN   THE  FLESH.  SI 

the  captain  up-stairs.  It  was  with  great 
difficulty  that  they  got  him  in  bed  but  when 
he  finally  reached  the  smooth,  comfortable 
resting  place  he  went  as  peacefully  to  sleep 
as  a  babe.  Then  there  was  a  meeting  at 
the  church  and  the  outlining  of  a  course  of 
action.  The  men  were  away  and  the  wo- 
men would  have  to  nurse  the  captain,  and 
they  decided  to  do  this  by  relays,  each  of 
those  serving  taking  turns. 

Naturally,  through  all  the  excitement  and 
uncertainty  Black  Jim  rose  steadily  in  pub- 
lic importance,  and  a  hole  in  the  high  hat 
he  wore  elicited  the  open-mouthed  rever- 
ence of  his  race.  But  Jim  subordinated  his 
own  heroism  in  being  hit  in  the  hat  and 
gave  his  unstinted  eulogy  to  his  master. 

"Captain  Ol'ver  was  'bleeged  to  be  hit," 
said  Jim,  calling  Mr.  Cheston  by  his  first 
name,  and  in  a  conclusive  manner.  "He 
was  'bleeged  to  be  hit.  Blind  men  could 
er  hit  him.  He  stood  right  before  'em  'en 
never  budge  er  inch,  'en  when  de  bullets 
come  erlong  he  took  'em.  I  guess  de 
reason  no  more  was  killed  was  'cause  he 
stopped  'em.  I  know  he  was  a  sight  heav- 
ier when  we  had  to  lift  him  up.  He  was 
just  weighed  down  wid  lead.  Eben  de  old 
gray  felt  de  difference." 

"I  guess  he  was  mighty  brave,"  put  in  an 
adventurous  auditor. 


52  A   HERO   IN    THE   FLESH. 

"He  was  de  bravest  man  that  ever  lived," 
said  Jim  in  a  manner  that  left  no  room  for 
dispute.  "It  ain't  nothin'  fer  one  ob  de 
slim  young  men  like  Lootennant  Moswell 
— 'though  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  agin  him — 
to  stand  up  'en  fight,  'cause  dey  kin  slip 
'tween  de  bullets.  But  Mars  Ol'ver  jest 
'bleeged  ter  stop  'em,  'cause  dare  ain't  no 
room  fer  'em  ter  git  by,  'en  he  stood  right 
up  'en  took  'em  all  'till  natcherally  he  fell 
down." 

"But,  Jim,  how  do  he  live  wid  all  dem 
holes  in  him?"  asked  a  more  courageous 
darkey. 

"Doctor  Flook  was  dare  and  plugged 
'em  up,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

Mary  Cartwell  had  returned  to  the  vil- 
lage just  after  the  company  had  left  and 
she  became  one  of  the  nurses  of  the  stricken 
captain.  She  arrived  in  the  morning 
and  remained  until  one  o'clock,  when  she 
went  home  to  dinner.  She  always  kept 
flowers  by  the  bedside.  One  sunshiny  day 
when  the  blooms  seemed  to  go  well  with 
thoughts  of  love  the  captain  said  he  was 
sorry  she  was  not  in  town  when  the  com- 
pany marched  away. 

She  explained  that  she  tried  to  return  in 
time  but  could  not  do  so.  "Mr.  Cheston, 
the  sorrows  of  war  are  not  alone  with  the 


A  HERO  IN  THE  FLESH.  53 

men.  We  have  the  suffering  without  the 
excitement,  the  suspense  without  the 
knowledge,  until  often  it  conies  too  late." 

"It  is  very  true,"  said  the  captain. 

"Even  now  I  do  not  know  where  he  is 
or  what  he  is  doing.  I  only  know  that  in 
my  heart  is  a  constant  prayer  and  that  I  am 
proud  of  his  bravery." 

"To  whom  do  you  refer?"  asked  Captain 
Cheston,  uneasily. 

"To  Lieutenant  Moswell.  He  took  com- 
mand after  you  fell,  you  know,  and  saved 
the  day  for  the  company,  and  he  is  to  be 
made  captain.  Oh,  if  God  will  only  keep 
him!" 

"You  and  Lieutenant  Moswell  are — ?" 
He  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"Engaged  to  be  married,"  she  replied, 
"and  you  know  now  what  agony  I  suffer 
daily,  waiting  and  hoping  and  yet  fearing 
to  hear  lest  the  news  should  be  bad." 

The  sick  man  sank  back  on  the  pillow 
and  his  eyes  closed. 

Well  could  Mary  Cartwell  fear  to  hear 
the  news,  for  the  very  next  day  it  came  and 
it  told  ^f  a  heroic  advance  and  of  a 
mangled  hero.  Against  all  the  wishes  of 
friends  and  relatives  she  determined  to  go 
to  him,  and  she  did;  and  in  that  rude  hos- 
pital she  became  an  angel  of  mercy,  and 


54  A    HERO    IN   THE   FLESH. 

soldiers  who  recovered  wrote  verses  about 
her  and  soldiers  who  died  went  to  another 
world  with  her  name  upon  their  lips. 

With  Dr.  Flook  off  at  the  front  the 
medical  resources  of  Salem  were  meagre, 
and  the  proper  precautions  against  blood 
poisoning  which  might  have  saved  Captain 
Cheston's  life  were  not  taken.  He  felt 
that  he  was  going  to  die,  and  one  morning 
he  abruptly  asked  the  poor  little  man  who 
posed  as  a  doctor  while  Dr.  Flook  was 
away,  if  he  knew  how  to  write  a  will.  He 
did  not  but  he  would  try,  at  least  he  would 
write  what  Mr.  Cheston  dictated. 

Very  laboriously  the  little  man  took 
down  the  words.  There  were  many  re- 
membrances. His  aunts  were  provided  for; 
Jim  came  in  for  a  modest  amount;  Dr. 
Flook  was  mentioned  with  touching  affec- 
tion; a  good  sum  was  left  for  the  town,  and 
the  church  was  not  forgotten. 

"And  all  the  rest  and  residue  of  my  es- 
tate," he  went  on  more  slowly  than  before, 
for  which  the  little  man  was  grateful,  for 
his  fingers  were  getting  cramped,  "real, 
personal  or  mixed,  of  which  I  shall  die 
seized  and  possessed,  or  to  which  I  shall 
be  entitled  at  the  time  of  my  decease,  I  give 
devise  and  bequeath,  to  be  equally  divided 
between  Miss  Mary  Cartwell  and  Stephen 


A  HERO   IN  THE  FLESH.  55 

Moswell.  I  do  this  as  a  proof  of  my  ad- 
miration for  the  said  Moswell  who  has 
been  permanently  disabled  in  the  service 
of  his  country;  and  as  an  expression  of 
gratitude  and — love."  He  said  this  so 
gently  that  the  amanuensis  looked  up  and 
said: 

"I  did  not  catch  the  last  word." 

"Affection,"  said  the  sick  man  with  a 
sigh,  "for  Miss  Cartwell  who  has  been  so 
kind  to  me  in  my  illness." 

Others  had  been  just  as  kind  but  they 
did  not  count. 

"And  my  only  request  is  that  once  a  year 
she  shall  place  upon  my  grave  a  few 
flowers  from  her  front  yard." 

"Is  that  all,  sir?"  asked  the  little  man  as 
he  choked  down  something. 

"That  is  all.  Call  some  one  in  and  let  it 
be  signed." 

In  a  few  minutes  this  was  done  and  the 
captain  thanked  them. 

"I  think  I  will  go  to  sleep,"  he  said 
gently. 

He  went  to  sleep.  And  the  only  pro- 
vision of  the  will  that  has  not  been  obeyed 
to  the  letter  is  the  sentence  about  once  a 
year.  Flowers  are  there  all  the  time. 


DANIEL   SPRING   HUDSON. 


"Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting, 

The  soul  that  rises  with  us — our  life's  star- 
Has  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar."—  Wordsworth. 


D 


'ANIEL  Spring  Budson  was  the  third 
of  five  children.  His  father,  who  was  in 
comfortable  circumstances,  took  some  part 
in  local  politics,  being  elected  to  several 
humble  offices  and  serving  out  the  terms 
with  patriotic  thoroughness.  A  turn  of 
fate  or  too  much  politics  brought  him  to 
poverty  and  this  poverty  was  as  grinding 
on  Daniel  as  on  his  father.  It  tended  to 
make  the  young  man  careless  and  although 
he  stood  well  in  his  classes  and  gathered  a 
slight  acquaintance  with  Latin  and  Greek 
and  French  and  Italian  this  extra  knowl- 
edge did  not  aid  his  local  reputation.  He 
was  arrested  for  shooting  game  on  the  pre- 
serves of  a  rich  man,  and,  worse  than  that, 
he  became  involved  matrimonially  with  a 
woman  who  was  older  than  himself  and 


DANIEL   SPRING  BUDSON.  57 

who  took  no  interest  in  literary  matters  be- 
yond the  society  news  in  the  county  paper. 
Of  course  the  inevitable  clash  soon  came. 

But  even  amid  poverty  and  disaster 
Daniel  Spring  Budson  kept  his  mind  re- 
markably alert.  The  people  who  spoke 
slightingly  of  him  and  sympathized  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Budson  for  the  misfortune  of 
having  such  a  good-for-nothing  son  did 
not  know  that  he  was  storing  his  mind 
with  wonderful  material.  Voices  sang  to 
him  at  night.  In  the  daytime,  visions  of 
beauty  swam  before  his  eyes.  Dull  words 
entered  his  ear  and  became  sentient.  His 
soul  was  full  of  exquisite  music. 

Amid  the  dreams  was  a  constant  longing 
for  the  city.  He  could  close  his  eyes  and 
see  a  time  when  he  would  be  able  to  return 
and  buy  the  farm  of  the  man  who  had  had 
him  arrested,  and  better  still,  when  he 
could  throw  greet  handsfull  of  gold  into 
the  lap  of  the  ever-complaining  Mrs. 
Budson. 

The  exact  date  of  his  going  to  the  city 
is  not  known  but  it  was  about  the  year 
1884.  He  carried  with  him  a  roll  of  manu- 
script. The  few  dollars  he  had  were  bor- 
rowings from  friends  whose  generosity 
outran  their  prudence.  His  first  mission 
was  to  a  newspaper  office.  He  had  read  in 


58  DANIEL  SPRING   BUDSON. 

the  paper  what  journalism  had  done  for 
literature  and  he  believed  this  as  firmly  as 
he  believed  that  it  was  hungry  for  new 
talent,  eager  for  the  light  of  a  new  genius, 
even  if  he  did  come  from  the  backwoods. 
So  to  the  office  of  this  able  journal,  with 
absolutely  the  largest  circulation,  Daniel 
Budson  went. 

After  long  waiting  he  was  admitted  to 
the  editorial  presence.  "I  would  like,"  he 
said,  "to  contribute  to  your  paper.  I  live 
in  the  lower  part  of  Arundel  county — " 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  the  editor  replied, 
"but  we  don't  need  a  correspondent  at  that 
point." 

"It  is  not  that,"  said  the  young  man. 
"I  have  with  me  a  specimen  of  my  work." 
He  drew  forth  the  bulk  of  foolscap  and  laid 
it  gracefully  upon  the  desk.  When  the 
editor  saw  it  was  poetry  he  quickly  said, 
"We  never  publish  a  poem  more  than  a 
third  of  a  column  long.  I  bid  you  good- 
day,  sir,  and  thank  you  for  remembering 
us." 

Almost  before  Daniel  Budson  knew  any- 
thing at  all  he  was  slowly  descending  the 
steps.  But  he  was  what  the  average  poet 
is  not — a  philosopher — and  he  found  a 
cheap  hotel  and  went  uncomplainingly  to 
bed. 


DANIEL  SPRING   BUDSON.  59 

It  was  an  unhappy  trick  of  circumstance 
that  this  inspired  soul  had  to  satisfy  his 
human  longings  on  a  fifteen  cent  breakfast, 
but  he  did  not  mind  it.  Far  above  his  di- 
gestion was  an  ambition  that  consumed 
even  hopelessness  and  reduced  hunger  to 
an  humble  basis.  After  breakfast,  he  wan- 
dered to  the  neighborhood  of  a  theatre  and 
loitered  there  until  the  manager  would 
condescend  to  see  him.  When  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  this  theatrical  auto- 
crat he  stammered  a  few  words  before  he 
finally  reached  the  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"I  don't  like  to  take  up  your  time,"  he 
said  modestly,  "but  I  think  I  have  a  play 
which  you  would  like  to  produce." 

The  manager's  face  took  on  a  patient 
arctic  expression  as  he  asked  languidly, 
"What  is  it  about?" 

"It  is  a  tragedy  in  blank  verse,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  have  been  impressed  by  the 
noble  richness  of  dramatic  material  in 
American  history;  of  a  race  of  splendid 
people  driven  from  their  homes  by  the 
forces  of  civilization,  and  of  the  remarkable 
varieties  of  character  which  this  unprece- 
dented conquest  has  produced,  and  as 
eloquently  and  as  forcibly  and  as  poetically 
as  I  could  I  have  told  the  story  in  these 
five  acts." 


60  DANIEL  SPRING  BUDSON. 

"Five  acts  did  you  say!"  exclaimed  the 
manager.  "Do  you  take  this  for  a 
Chinese  theatre?" 

"If  I  remember  correctly,"  replied  Dan- 
iel Budson,  modestly,  but  with  dignity, 
"nearly  all  of  Shakespeare's  plays  have  five 
acts." 

"Oh!"  replied  the  manager  laughingly, 
"so  you're  another  Shakespeare,  are  you?" 

"That  is  for  you  to  decide,"  said  Mr. 
Budson. 

"Well,  my  young  friend,  I  will  be  plain 
with  you.  Even  if  you  were  ten  Shakes- 
peares  rolled  into  one,  we  would  no  more 
think  of  producing  your  five  act  play  than 
we  would  of  burning  the  house.  Shakes- 
peare is  all  very  well  because  he  has  three 
centuries  of  fame  and  does  not  need  ad- 
vertising at  twenty  cents  per  line  in  the 
local  newspapers;  but  you  must  agree  with 
me  that  many  of  his  plays  lack  dramatic 
situations  and  if  they  were  not  such  a  fad, 
they  could  never  succeed.  Take  Hamlet,  it 
has  really  only  one  good  situation  in  three 
hours  of  talk,  and  the  public  of  to-day 
would  never  stand  as  much  blank  verse  if 
it  had  not  been  drilled  into  them  by  books 
and  schools  and  literature  generally.  You 
mean  well,  doubtless,  but  you  don't  know." 

"But  surely  you  will  read  this  for  me, 


DANIEL   SPRING   HUDSON.  6l 

and  see  if  it  has  merit?"  asked  the  young 
man. 

"Don't  let  me  give  you  any  false  hope," 
replied  the  manager.  "Years  ago  we  had  a 
stock  company  in  this  city,  and  we  also  had 
good  acting.  And  then  we  sometimes  con- 
sidered new  plays.  But  now,  every  actor 
we  used  to  have,  even  in  a  minor  part,  has 
become  a  star  and  all  we  do  is  to  play  at- 
tractions. The  idea  of  producing  a  new 
play  and  especially  the  idea  of  presenting  a 
five  act  tragedy  is  prodigiously  prepos- 
terous. Why,  young  man,  don't  you  know 
that  even  'Pinafore'  failed  here  on  its  first 
presentation?" 

"No,  I  did  not  know  it,"  answered  the 
young  man  sadly,  "but  I  am  glad  to  hear 
it,  and  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  attention, 
and  I  bid  you  good-morning." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  do  next,  but 
finally  he  thought  of  a  university  whose 
fame  had  spread  throughout  the  world.  To 
one  of  the  head  officers  of  this  institution 
he  made  his  way. 

"I  have  come,"  he  said,  "to  seek  your 
advice  and  perhaps  your  assistance.  I  am 
from  Arundel  county,  from  the  same  sec- 
tion which  gave  to  you  the  man  who  fur- 
nished the  millions  for  this  great  school, 
and  I  crave  your  patience,  not  only  that  I 


62  DANIEL   SPRING   HUDSON. 

may  plead  my  cause,  but  that  you  may 
show  you  appreciate  a  county  which  has 
made  this  institution  possible  for  the 
world." 

The  professor  looked  at  him  somewhat 
wildly,  but  repressed  the  emotion  that 
struggled  in  his  countenance. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  say,"  he  said. 

"Doubtless  you  have  read,"  said  the 
young  man,  "how  Pythagoras  recognized 
in  the  temple  of  Hera  the  shield  he  had 
borne  as  Euphorbus  in  the  siege  of  Troy. 
You  also  know  of  instances  where  the 
human  soul  has  reappeared  in  other  bodies 
after  centuries  of  silence." 

"Pardon  me,"  exclaimed  the  professor, 
"but  I  do  not  exactly  catch  the  point." 

"I  am  sir,  the  re-incarnation  of  William 
Shakespeare.  My  soul  recognizes  as  its 
own  the  words  attributed  to  him  three 
centuries  ago.  It  feels  in  itself  the  same 
powers  that  it  then  exercised,  only  they  are 
now  stronger  and  greater  and  better.  I  have 
mentioned  this  fact  to  no  person,  prefer- 
ring to  let  the  world  fall  upon  it  as  a  dis- 
covery. But  my  experiences  in  this  city 
have  been  so  discouraging  that  I  must  con- 
fess to  you  that  Daniel  Spring  Budson  of 
Arundel  county  is  the  sub-existent  Wil- 


DANIEL   SPRING   BUDSON.  63 

Ham  Shakespeare  of  Stratford-upon-the- 
Avon,  in  England.  He  was  born  in  April, 
1564;  he  married  when  he  was  eighteen 
years  old.  He  married  unhappily,  and  his 
father  failed  in  business  after  a  career  in 
politics.  He  was  arrested  for  poaching. 
He  had  thoughts  and  did  writing  about 
which  his  rude  and  coarse  companions 
knew  naught.  After  three  centuries,  all 
these  things  are  duplicated  in  my  humble 
career.  I  was  born  in  April,  1864,  just 
three  centuries  after  William  Shakespeare, 
and  all  the  incidents  of  his  chequered  and 
adventurous  life  up  to  the  time  of  my 
present  age  have  their  modern  repetitions. 
He  was  twenty  years  old  when  he  set  out 
to  a  city  to  conquer  fortune,  and  the  day  I 
started  for  this  city  was  my  twentieth  anni- 
versary. I  feel,  sir,  that  the  future  is  to  be 
a  continuation  of  his  illustrious  life,  and  I 
come  to  you  asking  that  this  university 
take  me  up,  so  to  speak,  and  give  me  and 
my  blank  verse  a  satisfactory  start  towards 
fortune." 

It  was  a  new  experience  for  this  most  ad- 
mirable scholar  and  he  scarcely  knew  how 
to  meet  it.  Indeed  it  were  better  to  leave 
this  unhappy  episode  and  its  painful  revel- 
ations out  of  this  account  entirely.  For  in 
the  course  of  the  half  hour  which  the 


64  DANIEL   SPRING   HUDSON. 

scholar  generously  gave  to  the  rustic,  it 
was  proven  beyond  all  peradventure  that 
Daniel  Hudson  did  not  know  enough  to 
enter  the  Freshman  class  of  the  university. 
To  his  protest  that  he  was  better  informed 
and  knew  more  things  and  had  a  wider 
knowledge  in  every  direction  than  the  pre- 
existent  Shakespeare,  the  response  was  a 
sad  shake  of  the  head  as  if  that  meant 
nothing  and  proved  less. 

"You  entirely  misapprehend  the  char- 
acter and  direction  of  modern  education," 
said  the  scholar.  "Culture  is  no  longer  a 
smatter  of  many  things  but  deep  drilling  in 
a  few  things.  The  world  has  grown  so 
enormously  that  the  most  a  man  can  hope 
is  to  know  one  or  two  things  well,  and  any 
university  that  tried  to  exist  as  schools  ex- 
isted in  Shakespeare's  day  would  amount 
to  a  very  little  in  scholarship." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  asked  Mr. 
Budson,  "that  if  William  Shakespeare  were 
here  present  in  the  flesh  he  could  not 
enter  the  Freshmen  class  of  this  univer- 
sity?" 

The  scholar  ignored  the  point  and  told 
Mr.  Budson  that  genius  was  a  thing  apart, 
and  that  universities  could  not  be  main- 
tained merely  for  the  accommodation  of 
genius. 


DANIEL   SPRING   BUDSON.  6$ 

"But,  surely,"  protested  Mr.  Budson,  as 
a  last  effort,  "you  devote  much  attention  to 
the  elegancies  of  literary  expression." 

The  scholar  laughed.  "Oh,  of  course, 
but  it  is  more  incidental  than  essential. 
Form  is  merely  a  fashion.  We  mine  the 
gold  here,  but  we  are  not  goldsmiths,  and 
smithing  is  the  trade  that  we  pick  up,  if 
we  pick  it  up  at  all,  along  the  outer  edges 
of  our  more  important  work." 

"Then  what  shall  I  do?"  asked  the  young 
man  in  real  desperation. 

"My  advice  to  you,"  said  the  scholar,  "is 
to  go  to  New  York.  You  will  be  able  to 
get  the  highest  prices  for  your  work  there, 
and  you  may  achieve  a  reputation  that  will 
pay  you  well,  and  in  after  years  if  you 
should  happen  to  become  very  famous  and 
are  sufficiently  old,  this  institution  may  re- 
cognize you  by  inviting  you  to  lecture." 

Daniel  Spring  Budson  went  to  New 
York.  Of  his  career  there  the  details  are 
lacking.  How  he  lived  at  first  no  one 
knows,  but  then  neither  do  we  know  how 
Shakespeare  lived  in  London  in  those  first 
indigent  and  melancholy  days.  Budson 
did  not  hold  horses  as  Shakespeare  did, 
but  he  might  have  been  a  conductor  on  a 
cable  car  or  he  might  have  earned  his  food 
on  fugitive  flights  of  mercenary  fancy,  pos- 
5 


66  DANIEL  SPRING   BUDSON. 

sibly  exploiting  the  best  soap  or  the  merits 
of  a  remedy  for  grip.  At  any  rate  we  do 
know  that  he  became  attached  to  a  theatre 
as  utility  man,  filling  humble  parts  when 
needed,  helping  to  smooth  the  passages  of 
new  plays  and  giving  voice  and  pen  for 
something  less  than  twenty  dollars  a  week. 
In  these  hard  but  not  necessarily  cheerless 
days  he  was  sending  his  five-act  tragedy  to 
the  magazines  and  publishers,  wasting  his 
patience  and  his  postage  stamps  with  he- 
roic persistence.  From  the  first  magazine 
came  a  printed  letter  informing  him  that 
his  article  was  not  exactly  adapted  to  its 
columns  but  that  the  return  did  not  signify 
that  it  was  lacking  in  merit.  It  would  be 
a  dreary  round  to  follow  this  manuscript 
upon  its  unhappy  journey.  It  simply  did 
not  fit  the  places  to  which  it  was  sent  and 
it  was  invariably  returned  with  a  courteous 
note.  After  the  magazines,  he  tried  the 
book-publishers,  and  here  the  delay  was 
longer  and  the  letters  were  more  discour- 
aging. 

"We  regret,"  wrote  one,  "that  the  con- 
dition of  the  book  market  does  not  justify 
us  in  venturing  upon  the  publication  of  a 
long  tragedy  such  as  you  have  been  kind 
enough  to  submit  to  us.  The  problem  of 
putting  forth  a  volume  of  verse,  especially 


DANIEL  SPRING  HUDSON.  67 

tragedy,  is  a  very  delicate  matter,  and  a 
risky  undertaking  in  the  peculiar  state  of 
the  public  preference.  We  mention  these 
things  so  that  you  will  understand  why  we 
are  regretfully  obliged  to  return  to  you 
your  manuscript,  with  our  most  respectful 
apologies  for  the  delay,  a  delay  that  has 
been  made  necessary  by  our  sincere  desire 
to  give  to  the  tragedy  every  possible  ad- 
vantage of  patient  and  complete  consider- 
ation." 

But  destiny  was  working  out  a  kinder 
fate.  So  useful  had  Daniel  Budson  been 
around  the  theatre,  that  the  managers  in  a 
fortunate  interval  where  nothing  else  was 
in  sight,  consented  to  produce  the  tragedy 
upon  the  stage.  A  drag  net  was  cast  and  a 
company  of  modern  tragedians  was  se- 
cured. Oh,  the  variety  and  characteristics 
of  this  motley  gathering!  During  the  re- 
hearsals, Daniel  Budson  was  several  times 
on  the  verge  of  insanity.  In  vain  he  pro- 
tested that  a  noble  red  man  did  not  have  a 
Milesian  accent.  In  vain  he  complained  that 
the  English  officer  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury did  not  shout  heroics  in  Germanic  gut- 
turals. In  vain  he  implored  that  Colonial 
life  did  not  present  the  same  racial  differ- 
ences as  in  modern  Castle  Garden.  But  all 
of  these  things  went  for  naught.  They 


68  DANIEL   SPRING   BUDSON. 

were  modern  tragedians,  and  they  knew 
their  business  a  good  deal  better  than  any 
wild-eyed  rustic. 

The  play  was  produced.  By  a  liberal 
distribution  of  free  tickets  there  was  a 
large  and  patient  audience.  Through  po- 
liteness it  remained  until  the  fall  of  the 
curtain,  and  each  of  the  tragedians,  shout- 
ing heroics  in  his  own  manner,  received 
plaudits  from  his  own  friends.  At  sixes 
and  sevens,  the  play  went  through,  and  a 
moderate  success  appeared  to  have  been 
scored. 

But  there  was  a  difference  in  the  morn- 
ing! The  critics  jumped  upon  the  pro- 
duction like  school  boys  on  a  foot-ball. 
Several  of  them  acknowledged  that  the 
verse  seemed  to  have  a  certain  dignity,  but 
without  exception  they  all  claimed  that  the 
movement  was  too  slow,  the  construction 
was  involved,  there  was  not  enough  action, 
and  there  was  too  much  language.  They 
were  one  voice,  furthermore,  in  saying  that 
if  the  play  was  to  continue,  the  author 
would  have  to  cut  out  most  of  the  long 
speeches  and  soliloquies,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  they  delayed  the  performance 
without  compensating  for  the  time  they 
wasted. 

Daniel    Budson    ate    no    breakfast    that 


DANIEL  SPRING  BUDSON.  69 

morning,  especially  after  he  had  read  the 
following:  "At  the  Comet  Theatre  last 
night,  a  tragedy  was  produced.  It  was  by 
Daniel  Spring  Budson,  whose  middle  name 
gives  an  idea  of  his  gorgeous  versification. 
It  was  a  blank  verse  melodrama,  dealing 
with  Poor  Lo,  and  a  long  list  of  white 
men,  and  it  was  full  of  heroics  and  stage 
thunder,  ending  in  a  general  massacre  of 
Indians  and  dramatic  proprieties.  Fenni- 
more  Cooper  and  the  yellow-covered 
dreadful  were  dished  up  in  one  conglomer- 
ate eruption  of  adjectives  and  aborigines. 
Our  old  friend  the  border  villain  who  used 
to  advance  to  the  front  of  the  stage  and 
shout,  'Belud!'  and  fire  off  a  horse  pistol, 
was  not  in  it  in  comparison  with  the  volum- 
inous hero  who  carried  a  stately  presence 
and  an  arsenal  of  revolvers  and  words. 
The  audience  stood  it  with  noble  endur- 
ance, and  the  actors  struggled  as  if  they 
were  trying  to  earn  their  salaries,  but  the 
play  is  utterly  preposterous,  and  the  won- 
der is  that  it  ever  found  production  on  the 
stage  of  such  a  theatre  as  the  Comet." 

In  the  middle  of  the  week,  when  the  audi- 
ence had  dwindled  to  a  corporal's  guard, 
Daniel  Budson  read  in  the  paper  that  a 
famous  farce  company  "last  night  played 
its  two  thousandth  performance  to  the 


7O  DANIEL   SPRING   BUDSON. 

usual  crowded  house,"  and  "another  rat- 
tling farce  with  its  high-kicking  specialties 
and  the  champion  of  the  world,  continues 
to  crowd  the  Saturn  at  every  perform- 
ance." 

What  became  of  Daniel  Spring  Hudson 
no  one  knows.  He  disappeared,  and  the 
singular  part  of  it  all  is  that  no  one  took 
the  trouble  to  find  out  where  he  went.  If 
he  had  been  a  politician  drawing  a  small 
salary  or  anything  of  that  sort  there  would 
have  been  much  commotion  and  the 
searching  of  continents.  But  the  poor 
genius  was  not  at  home  in  this  age  of  the 
earth  and  he  probably  went  his  way  to 
another  sphere.  But  shall  we  lose  hope? 
No!  No!  In  another  three  hundred  years 
perhaps  the  cycle  of  genius  will  have  made 
another  course  and  the  world  will  be  bet- 
ter prepared  for  the  coming. 


ABNER. 


O 


F  course  not.  I  understand  why  you 
do  not  want  it.  Times  are  hard.  No  doubt 
about  it.  It  has  been  a  bad  year  on  the 
crops,  and  you  don't  feel  that  you  can 
afford  to  spend  money  on  books,  but,"  and 
here  the  agent  bent  confidentially  forward, 
"this  is  a  work  that  you  must  have.  I  took 
special  pains  to  come  to  see  you  about  it. 
I  came  because  I  have  read  your  letters 
in  the  county  paper — letters  that  are  at- 
tracting attention  outside  of  this  county. 
I  knew  from  them  that  you  were  a  man  of 
intelligence  who  could  appreciate  a  great 
work  and  so  I  came  and  I  am  glad  I  came. 
As  I  walked  up  the  lane  I  saw  a  handsome 
young  man  for  whom  I  predict  a  great 
future — your  son,  if  I  am  not  much  mis- 
taken?" 

"My  boy  Abner." 

"I  knew  it,"  asserted  the  agent  with  vic- 
torious emphasis.  "I  knew  it.  The  son  of 
his  father,  a  regular  chip  off  the  old  block. 
That  boy  is  going  to  be  a  great  man.  Mark 
you!  I  say  he  will  be  a  great  man.  It  is 
stamped  on  his  face." 


72  ABNER. 

"Abner  is  a  good  boy,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  "and  a  good  son.  He  has  not 
had  the  advantages  that  I  had  hoped  to 
give  him.  He  was  at  school  less  than  a 
year;  he  ought  to  have  been  there  several 
years,  but  the  farm  had  to  be  attended  to 
and  I  couldn't  spare  him.  But  he  has 
studied  some  and  when  he  gets  his  chance 
he  will  make  his  mark." 

"Then  I'm  doubly  glad  I  came,"  the 
agent  said  with  a  tone  of  real  interest. 
"I'm  in  time  to  do  you  a  very  great  service. 
You  want  that  boy  of  yours  to  succeed  in 
life.  You  want  to  help  him.  That's 
natural.  You  can  do  it.  This  great  work 
is  your  chance.  It's  the  practical  educa- 
tion of  the  century  condensed  in  one  vol- 
ume. Nothing  succeeds  like  success  and 
this  book  tells  all  about  success.  Put  it  in 
the  hands  of  your  son  and  he  will  catch  the 
spirit  of  success  just  as  quick  as  he  would 
catch  the  small  pox  or  the  measles.  Allow 
me  to  show  you,"  and  he  moved  still 
closer.  "Right  here  in  these  pages  are  the 
lives  of  the  successful  men  of  America. 
Not  a  few,  mind  you,  but  all — every  one — 
with  portraits  from  photographs  taken 
specially  for  this  great  work.  Did  you 
know,  sir,"  and  he  drew  himself  up  as  if 
for  the  communication  of  some  all-impor- 


ABNER.  73 

tant  message,  "that  of  all  these  men  more 
than  two-thirds  had  the  course  of  their 
lives  changed  by  the  influence  of  books? 
Books,  sir,  of  people  and  about  people  who 
had  succeeded?  Our  great  Emerson  said 
that  biography  was  the  best  guide  for 
youth,  and  you  remember  that  Carlisle  de- 
clared that  biography  was  the  only  true 
history.  Why,  sir,  our  biggest  millionaires 
owed  their  rise  to  fortune  to  what  they 
read,  and  what  would  have  become  of  our 
Presidents  if  they  had  missed  the  books 
that  launched  them  on  the  tide  which  taken 
at  its  flood  leads  on  to  fortune?" 

This  came  forth  with  all  the  happy  elo- 
quence of  a  man  unfettered  by  fact  or  the 
ethics  of  quotation. 

"You  want  this  book.  You  must  have 
it.  It's  the  last  copy,  and  as  I  feel  an  in- 
terest in  the  success  of  your  son  I'm  going 
to  let  you  have  it  for  only  three  dollars, 
although  every  other  copy  of  the  edition 
sold  for  four.  Take  it,  sir,  and  you  will 
see  the  day  when  you  will  thank  me  for 
having  brought  it  to  you." 

Poor  Daniel  Green!  Fortune  had  cut 
out  great  things  for  him,  but  he  had  not 
measured  up  to  his  destiny.  It  might  have 
been  different  if  circumstances  had  been 
less  hostile,  but  monopolies  were  so  inso- 


74  ABNER. 

lent,  taxation  was  so  unequal,  politics  was 
so  corrupt,  and  the  world  was  so  utterly 
out  of  joint  that  he  grew  tired  of  striving, 
and  let  the  farm  run  down  and  his  debts 
run  up  while  he  railed  at  fate  and  wasted 
his  time  and  substance  in  letters  to  the 
county  paper.  He  dreamed  of  what  he 
could  do,  if  he  had  the  power,  but  while 
government  and  national  development  and 
iridescent  possibilities  of  high  offices  seek- 
ing good  men  claimed  his  thoughts  and 
his  speculations,  the  whitewash  faded  from 
his  house,  and  the  gates  dropped  from 
their  hinges,  and  the  fences  began  to  fall 
away,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  his  own  dis- 
couragement. 

The  trouble,  too,  was  that  his  apathy  in 
material  things  had  affected  his  son  Abner. 
Mrs.  Green  had  died  when  the  boy  was  ten 
years  old.  This  good  woman,  when  in  her 
health,  kept  order  on  the  farm  by  the  force 
of  her  practical  common  sense.  But  when 
she  was  gone  Mr.  Green's  few  energies 
drooped  into  those  fine  intentions  which 
see  much  and  accomplish  nothing.  Abner 
was  now  twenty-two,  a  man  in  age  without 
a  man's  education  and  experience.  He 
had  been  to  school  only  ten  months.  There 
his  ambition  began  to  take  wings,  and  he 
wanted  to  do  something,  but  he  could  not 


ABNER.  75 

leave  his  father,  and  that  was  the  end  of 
it.  Even  John,  who  as  a  waif  had  come  to 
the  farm  and  who  had  grown  to  the  dignity 
of  the  only  hired  man  on  the  place,  shared 
the  common  restraint,  but  it  must  be  said 
in  justice  to  him  that  he  was  the  most  use- 
ful of  the  three,  because  he  was  not  both- 
ered by  either  imagination  or  ambition. 
Content  with  wages  that  were  never  paid 
he  existed  in  the  full  satisfaction  of  all  he 
wanted  to  eat,  and  a  comfortable  place  to 
sleep. 

Mr.  Green  was  nursing  the  book  on  his 
lap  when  Abner  and  John  came  from  the 
field, — Abner,  a  fine,  sturdy  fellow,  nearly 
six  feet  tall,  manly  in  bearing,  and  bright 
in  countenance;  John,  more  round  than 
erect,  older  in  years,  but  yet  a  child  in 
comparison  with  Abner. 

"Abner,"  said  Mr.  Green,  after  John  had 
passed  on  to  the  house,  "one  of  the  sor- 
rows of  my  life  has  been  my  inability  to 
give  you  a  good  education." 

"That's  all  right  father,"  he  replied 
cheerfully. 

"My  son,  it  isn't  all  right.  I  see  now 
that  I  have  been  selfish.  I  might  have  al- 
lowed you  to  go  to  school.  I  can  never 
forgive  myself  for  not  allowing  you  to  go, 
but  what's  past  is  past — we  cannot  recall 


76  A8NER. 

it,"  and  then  changing  his  voice,  he  added, 
in  a  more  practical  way,  "I  have  bought 
this  book  for  you.  It  is  a  book  on  the 
success  of  successful  men.  It  tells  how 
they  rose  from  even  humbler  circumstances 
than  those  that  surround  you.  My  son,  I 
want  you  to  read  it.  Study  it.  You  will 
find  practical  examples  of  what  I  have 
often  told  you,  that  success  is  the  grasping 
of  opportunity — the  reaching  out.  When  I 
am  gone " 

"Now,  father,  you  must  not  say  that." 

"Yes,  I  must,  my  son.  It  will  soon  be 
time  for  me  to  go.  I  feel  it  more  and 
more  every  day." 

He  had  been  saying  this  for  ten  years, 
but  as  usual  Abner  listened  as  if  he  had 
never  heard  it  before. 

"When  I  am  gone,"  repeated  the  old 
gentleman,  "I  want  you  to  strike  out  in  the 
world.  It's  the  only  way  you  can  conquer. 
The  soldier  who  never  fights  never  wins 
battles,  and  the  mightiest  battle  that  ever 
was  fought  is  the  battle  of  life.  Take  the 
book,  Abner,  and  read  it,  and  remember 
that  no  circumstance  is  too  small  for  your 
attention.  Look  to  the  little  things,  and 
you  will  be  great  in  big  things." 

For  once  Mr.  Green  was  right.  Two 
weeks  afterwards  he  died.  In  those  two 
weeks  the  book  had  been  read  and  re-read 


ABNER.  77 

by  the  son,  who  found  in  it  a  hope  he  had 
never  felt  before,  an  inspiration  that  had 
never  moved  him.  Way  down  in  his  soul 
were  longings  for  something  broader  and 
better  than  the  sunrise  to  sunset  toil  on 
the  farm,  but  they  had  not  dared  to  find 
expression  until  the  words  that  he  read 
gave  them  voice,  and  opened  his  eyes  to 
the  possibilities  of  achievement.  At  first, 
it  looked  so  big  that  his  courage  faltered, 
but  when  he  read  how  poor  boys  like  him- 
self had  started  on  nothing,  and  moved  up 
the  plane  of  life  to  the  elevations  of  fame 
and  fortune,  his  heart  grew  stronger. 

After  the  funeral  came  the  public  sale. 
There  were  more  debts  than  assets,  and  the 
creditors  pounced  upon  the  little  property 
as  soon  as  the  law  permitted.  The  people 
came  and  crowded  in  the  house  and  filled 
the  yard,  for  November  was  a  dull  month, 
and  they  had  nothing  better  to  do.  Abner 
and  John  had  wandered  around,  bidding 
good-bye  to  everything.  Then  came  the 
auctioneer,  with  his  blatant  voice  and 
doarse  wit,  turning  the  long  silence  of  the 
old  place  into  a  bedlam  of  noise  and  laugh- 
ter. After  the  farm  had  been  been  bought 
in  by  Mr.  Anthony  Cobb,  who  held  a 
mortgage  on  it,  Abner's  emotions  began 
to  get  the  better  of  him  and  he  walked 


78  ABNER. 

around  the  corner  and  turned  toward  the 
big  poplar  tree  where  he  hoped  to  find  a 
bit  of  solitude. 

As  he  did  so  a  young  woman  approached 
from  the  opposite  direction.  She  was  tall 
but  not  as  tall  as  he.  She  was  dressed 
plainly  but  with  attractive  taste.  It  would 
be  wrong  to  call  her  beautiful  but  there 
was  a  rare  womanliness  about  her  that 
seemed  a  part  of  sunshine.  Her  face  had 
the  repose  of  a  practical  mind  and  the 
sweetness  of  an  angel's  amiability.  Her 
eyes  were  large  and  glorious,  as  serene  and 
lovely  as  the  quiet  blue  of  the  autumn  sky. 

Jane  Cobb!  Many  a  time  had  she  dis- 
turbed Abner's  thoughts  and  many  a 
struggle  had  he  had  with  himself  to  forget 
her.  He  had  been  with  her  at  school;  he 
had  watched  her  at  church;  he  had  com- 
posed unwritten  messages  of  which  she 
never  knew,  and  now,  of  all  persons,  she 
was  standing  face  to  face  with  him  and  he 
with  her  and  the  big  lump  of  nothingness 
in  his  throat  was  making  him  feel  like  a 
fool  bereft  of  speech. 

"How  are  you,  Abner?  I  did  not  think 
I'd  come  but  as  everybody  else  was  here 
and  the  day  was  so  fine  I  changed  my 
mind.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am  very 
sorry." 


ABNER.  79 

"I  thank  you,"  and  then  with  a  forced 
smile  that  partly  dislodged  the  choking 
sensation,  he  added,  "I  hope  you  will  enjoy 
it." 

"No,  Abner,"  she  replied  seriously,  "I  do 
not  enjoy  it.  It  is  the  saddest  thing  in  life, 
this  breaking  up  of  a  home,  and  when  I  said 
I  was  sorry  I  meant  that  you  have  my 
deepest  sympathy.  Are  you  going  to 
move  away  from  the  neighborhood?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  "I  have 
not  any  plans — haven't  had  time  to  think 
of  plans." 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him  and  said, 
"you  will  believe  me,  won't  you,  when  I  say 
I'm  sorry?" 

"I  do  believe  you,"  he  replied,  "and  God 
bless  you  for  it.  It's  the  only  kind  word 
I've  heard  to-day." 

And  then  feeling  the  lump  coming  back, 
he  hurried  on  around  the  house  and  left 
Jane  standing  there  as  if  she  did  not  ex- 
actly understand  the  young  man.  Abner 
walked  slowly  along  the  side  of  the  yard 
which  was  at  that  time  vacated,  and  sum- 
moned all  his  will  power  to  repress  the 
emotions  which  he  felt  to  be  unworthy  of 
him  as  a  man.  Finally,  he  turned  the  other 
corner  and  mingled  with  the  crowd. 

A  half  hour  later  the  people  saw  Abner 


So  ABNER. 

and  John  go  down  to  the  barn,  but  they 
did  not  see  them  making  their  way  over 
the  field  under  the  cover  of  the  fence  nor 
did  they  hear  Abner  saying,  "Of  course,  I 
guess  they  expect  us  to  stay  in  the  house 
all  night,  but,  John,  I  just  can't  do  it. 
It's  not  ours  any  longer." 

"That's  how  I  feel,  Abner,  but  where  are 
we  going  to  sleep  to-night?" 

"I'm  blest  if  I  know,"  and  they  both  be- 
came thoughtful. 

They  walked  along  at  a  good  gait  until 
they  came  to  the  fence  at  the  edge  of  the 
woods,  and  as  if  controlled  by  a  common 
impulse  they  halted  on  the  top  rail  and  sat 
there  in  solemn  meditation. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  glad  it's  over,"  said  Abner 
with  a  sigh. 

"It  was  worse  than  the  funeral,"  said 
John. 

There  was  another  pause,  but  presently 
Abner  brought  back  his  far-away  thoughts. 

"John,"  he  said,  "how  would  you  like  to 
go  to  store-keeping?" 

"What  on?" 

"Nothing, — that's  what  all  these  million- 
aires commenced  on." 

"We  don't  know  nothin'  about  keepin' 
store." 

"We'll  learn." 

"Who's  goin'  to  start  us?" 


ABNER.  8l 

"I  was  thinking  if  we  could  get  old  man 
Cobb  to  let  us  have  that  house  down  at  the 
cross-roads  we  could  borrow  a  dollar  or 
two  and  start  in  just  for  luck.  There 
ain't  any  store  in  this  neighborhood  and  I 
believe  we  could  make  enough  anyhow  to 
live  on.  We've  got  to  do  something." 

"No  doubt  about  that.  Where  are  we 
goin'  to  get  our  supper  and  lodgin'?" 

"John,"  replied  Abntr  with  a  slight  tone 
of  resentment,  "all  these  rich  men  had  to 
go  round  hungry  before  they  struck  luck. 
If  you're  going  to  give  in  like  this  you'll 
be  poor  the  rest  of  your  days." 

John  was  silent.  He  propped  his  boot 
heels  on  the  second  rail  and  bending  his 
body  forward  placed  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  chin  in  the  palms  of  his 
hands. 

Abner  was  disposed  to  argue  the  point. 
"I've  read  all  about  these  rich  men,"  he 
said,  "and  I  tell  you  that  some  of  them 
when  they  started  out  were  no  better  off 
than  we  are."  Only  a  few  lingering  rays 
of  light  were  left  of  the  day  and  the  night 
was  rapidly  encompassing  the  earth,  but 
from  beneath  his  ill-fitting  coat  Abner 
drew  the  priceless  volume. 

"You  brung  it,  did  you?"  asked  John  in 
evident  disappointment. 
6 


82  ABNER. 

"Of  course  I  brought  it.  This  book  is 
worth  more  to  me  than  the  old  farm. 

"I  guess  it's  mighty  nice  to  know  how 
to  read,"  said  John,  "mighty  nice,  but  I 
wish  the  old  book  had  never  come  to  the 
house.  You're  not  half  as  sociable  as  you 
used  to  be.  'Course  the  book  can  talk  to 
you  but  who's  goin'  to  talk  to  me?" 

Abner  laughed  one  of  his  cheery  old 
laughs — the  first  since  the  day  of  his 
father's  death,  and  he  followed  it  with  a 
slap  on  John's  shoulder  that  threatened  to 
upset  his  equilibrium. 

"Well,  anyhow,  it's  good  to  hear  a  laugh 
once  more,"  John  declared.  "I'd  begun  to 
think  we'd  gone  into  the  long-faced  busi- 
ness for  good." 

Abner  became  serious.  "I  feel,  John,  as 
if  we'd  escaped  from  somewhere;  just  like 
a  bird  when  it  gets  out  of  the  cage."  He 
was  turning  the  leaves  as  he  spoke  and 
when  he  came  to  the  page  he  wanted  he 
held  it  up,  "Do  you  see  that  man?" 

"Yes,  I  see  him.  He's  pretty  enough  to 
balk  a  mule." 

"That  man's  worth  forty  millions  of  dol- 
lars. Think  of  it!  Forty  millions!  Lots 
of  them  in  here  are  worth  millions,  too,  and 
they  were  all  poor.  Some  of  them  were 
barefooted  and  you  know  we're  not  that 


ABNER.  83 

bad  off.  I  like  this  man  because  he  didn't 
do  everything  all  at  once.  He  started  a 
little  store  and  worked  up  and  up  and  up 'till 
he  owned  about  everything  in  sight,  and  he 
says — I  can't  see  to  read  it,  but  I  remember 
his  words — he  says  'begin  modestly,  deal 
honestly,  take  good  risks,  and  keep  eter- 
nally at  it,  and  you'll  succeed.'  And  I  tell 
you,  John,  that  the  reason  these  fellows  got 
along  was  because  they  had  the  nerve  to 
strike  out.  One  over  in  the  back  part  of 
the  book — he's  worth  twenty  millions — 
says,  'No  young  man  will  accomplish  any- 
thing or  is  worth  anything  unless  he  has 
confidence  in  himself  and  the  one  next  to 
him  in  the  book  says,  'Nerve  is  better  than 
genius  and  pluck  will  beat  luck  every  day 
in  the  week.'  " 

"That's  all  right,  Abner,  but  have  you  got 
the  nerve  to  ask  old  man  Cobb?" 

Abner  hesitated  and  John  had  to  repeat 
the  question. 

"Yes,  I  have.  As  the  fellow  who  made 
ten  millions  said,  'Never  put  off  anything. 
If  it's  worth  doing,  do  it  at  once.'  I'll  do  it 
this  very  night." 

He  sprang  from  the  fence  and  called  to 
John  to  follow.  Night  had  come  on  but 
they  knew  the  woods  as  well  as  they  did 
the  public  highway.  They  proceeded  sheep 


84  ABNER. 

fashion  until  they  reached  the  milldam  and 
they  went  over  the  dam  to  the  house  of 
Mr.  Anthony  Cobb.  John  remained  at 
the  gate  and  Abner  proceeded  up  the  path. 
Before  he  reached  the  door  a  sudden  weak- 
ness came  upon  him.  He  paused  as  if  to 
breathe  a  prayer.  "Just  so  she  don't  come 
to  the  door  I  can  pull  through,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself. 

But  she  did  come.  "Why,  Abner.  Walk 
right  in,"  she  said.  "We  are  very  glad  to 
see  you." 

"No — no — thank  you,  Jane — thank  you — 
I  just  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Cobb." 

"I'm  very  sorry  but  he  went  to  town 
after  the  sale."  The  light  shone  through 
the  open  door  and  disclosed  John  with  his 
elbows  on  the  gate.  "John,  is  that  you?" 
she  asked  and  then  she  added,  "Both  of 
you  come  in  and  have  some  supper." 

John's  listlessness  disappeared  as  if  by 
magic  and  he  opened  the  gate  and  started 
forward  but  he  was  stopped  by  Abner's 
words.  "We  are  very  much  obliged  but 
you  must  excuse  us." 

Then  with  a  good-night  he  went  on 
down  the  path  and  John  followed  him  over 
the  dam  in  melancholy  silence. 

"Abner,"  he  said  presently,  "when  them 
three  millionaires  of  your'n  were  goin' 


ABNER.  85 

hungry  did  they  throw  away  chances  and 
starve  for  the  fun  of  the  thing  or  did  they 
do  it  just  'cause  they  had  to?" 

"John,  you  haven't  any  pride." 

"Maybe  not,  but  I've  got  an  appetite  as 
big  as  this  mill  pond." 

In  that  part  of  the  country  there  is  a 
stream  not  large  enough  to  be  a  river — 
almost  too  small  to  be  a  creek — that  winds 
in  and  about  for  many  miles,  and  wherever 
it  dips  between  ridges  of  high  ground 
there  is  a  dam  to  intercept  its  progress  and 
to  store  up  water  power  for  a  mill.  The 
dam  at  this  point  was  a  big  embankment 
of  earth  with  a  flour  or  grist  mill  at  one 
end  and  a  saw  mill  at  the  other  and  with  a 
great  rude  trough  of  thick  timber  in  the 
middle  for  a  flood  gate  to  carry  off  the  sur- 
plus water.  The  machinery  of  this  gate  was 
primitive  and  cumbrous — big  contrivances 
of  thick  boards  that  to  be  operated  had  to 
be  raised  by  main  force  and  awkwardness. 

For  more  than  a  year  the  saw  mill  had 
been  idle.  It  was  not  much  of  a  building 
at  best, — simply  a  plain  shed  of  ample  pro- 
portions with  windows  concealed  by  big 
broad  shutters,  and  roof  of  old  shingles 
that  had  grown  tired  of  one  another  and 
parted  company  and  turned  their  faces  to  a 
thousand  different  angles,  as  if  inviting  the 


86  ABNER. 

sun  to  .warp  them  from  their  fastenings 
and  allow  them  to  drop  to  the  ground  and 
decay  in  peace. 

Abner  plunged  through  the  darkness 
with  John  following.  When  they  reached 
the  saw  mill  he  stopped. 

"John,"  he  said,  "we've  got  to  sleep 
somewhere  and  I  guess  we'd  better  try 
this." 

"But  how  about  supper?" 

Abner  replied,  with  a  slight  tone  of  dis- 
gust, "Oh,  go  over  into  the  orchard  and 
get  some  apples,  and  while  you  are  gone 
I'll  pick  out  a  place  for  a  bed." 

When  John  came  back  with  his  hat  full, 
Abner  had  selected  the  spot  for  the  night's 
rest.  In  all  truth  John  was  not  happy  and 
he  even  said  that  he  did  not  want  to  be  a 
millionaire  and  then  he  sank  into  a  sleep 
that  many  a  millionaire  would  have  given 
his  millions  to  enjoy. 

Abner  was  sleepy  but  at  first  he  could 
not  sleep.  The  face  of  Jane  haunted  him 
with  a  fascination  he  had  never  seen  before. 
Much  as  he  had  liked  her,  he  had  never  felt 
what  had  come  to  him  that  day.  When 
she  spoke  so  sweetly  the  few  kind  words  it 
seemed — she  seemed — altogether  different. 
And  yet  he  knew  it  was  foolish  for  him  to 
think  of  her.  She  was  beyond  him.  Her 


ABNER.  87 

father  had  fully  ten  thousand  dollars — he 
wasn't  worth  a  cent — and  he  was  going  to 
ask  her  father,  who  was  not  an  approach- 
able man,  the  biggest  favor  he  ever  asked 
anybody  in  his  life.  "But  I'll  do  it,"  he 
said,  "I'll  do  it.  That's  how  they  all  suc- 
ceeded. They  struck  out."  And  then  he 
forgot  about  the  sale  and  thought  of  Jane, 
and  as  he  thought  of  her  he  fell  asleep  and 
dreamed  that  he  was  at  the  supper  table 
and  she  was  helping  him  to  hot  biscuit  and 
steaming  coffee  and  fried  chicken  smoth- 
ered in  rich  brown  gravy. 

When  Abner  awoke  the  next  morning, 
John  was  standing  over  him.  "Breakfast 
is  ready,"  he  said,  and  Abner  looked  and 
saw  two  biscuits  and  a  piece  of  cold 
chicken.  Before  he  could  recover  from  his 
astonishment,  John  explained. 

"I've  been  up  more'n  a  hour.  I  thought 
I'd  go  over  and  see  if  old  man  Cobb  had 
got  back.  Miss  Jane  asked  me  if  I'd  been 
to  breakfast.  I  didn't  ask  to  be  excused — 
I  didn't — but  set  right  down  and  paralyzed 
things.  When  she  went  out  of  the  room 
I  put  the  two  biscuits  and  chicken  leg  in 
my  pocket  and  I'm  sorry  it's  not  more." 

The  incongruity  of  the  thing  began  to 
dawn  upon  Abner.  He  had  forsaken  the 
old  home  because  Mr.  Cobb  had  bought  it 


88  ABNER. 

and  here  he  was  occupying  Mr.  Cobb's  saw 
mill  and  eating  his  apples  and  John  had 
literally  stolen  a  breakfast  for  him  from  the 
Cobb  home.  The  only  excuse  he  could 
make  to  himself  was  that  nobody  was  using 
the  mill,  and,  anyhow,  he  couldn't  think  of 
going  back  to  the  farm.  Worse  than  all, 
was  the  fact  that  Mr.  Cobb  was  not  at 
home  and  would  probably  not  return  until 
the  next  day.  This  meant  mora  waiting 
and  more  loss  of  time.  Indeed  Mr.  Cobb 
did  not  return  that  night  and  the  next  day 
a  heavy  rain  set  in.  John  trudged  again  to 
the  Cobb  house  only  to  find  that  they  did 
not  expect  him  until  late  at  night  as  he  had 
sent  word  that  important  business  detained 
him  in  town. 

All  through  the  afternoon  the  rain  came 
down  dismally.  It  was  very  tiresome, 
waiting  in  the  old  mill,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing else  to  do,  and  Abner  and  John  spent 
the  time  as  comfortably  as  they  could, 
Abner  reading  from  his  book  and  John 
falling  regularly  to  sleep  as  he  read.  When 
nightfall  came  the  steady  pattering  on  the 
old  roof  did  not  disturb  them.  The 
soughing  of  the  wind  among  the  trees  did 
not  bother  them.  The  creaking  of  loose 
boards,  the  rattling  of  the  old  shutters,  was 
no  interference  with  their  slumbers.  But 


ABNER.  89 

just  before  the  break  of  day  Abner  awoke 
and  he  suddenly  realized  that  it  was  a  very 
unusual  storm.  He  sat  up  and  listened  and 
then  nudged  his  companion,  who  also  sat 
up  and  listened. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  been  going  on  all 
night?" 

"Don't  know,"  replied  John,  "but  if  it 
has  we'd  better  be  moving.  This  old  dam 
won't  stand  much  of  a  strain." 

Abner  made  his  way  to  the  front  of  the 
mill.  By  the  first  murky  light  of  the  dawn 
he  saw  the  universal  wetness  of  everything 
and  as  quickly  observed  that  the  water  had 
risen  considerably  in  the  pond.  John 
joined  him  and  together  they  watched  the 
downpour. 

"If  it  keeps  on,  the  upper  dam  will  break 
sure  as  thunder,"  said  John.  "They're  not 
running  the  mill  now  and  there's  nobody 
to  look  out  for  it,  and  if  it  breaks  it's  good- 
bye here." 

"Look,  John,"  exclaimed  Abner,  "look! 
it's  getting  higher.  I'll  bet  she's  broke. 
This  end  is  all  right.  Come  on  to  the 
other  side  to  see  how  it  is  there." 

They  found  everything  safe  as  far  as  the 
floodgates.  They  tried  to  lift  the  gates  and 
thus  relieve  the  pressure,  but  they  couldn't 
budge  the  huge  timbers.  Several  times 


90  ABNER. 

they  threw  all  their  weight  into  the  work, 
but  it  was  no  use.  Then  Abner  started  in 
a  run  toward  the  grist  mill.  They  had  not 
jrone  fifty  yards  when  an  exclamation  told 
that  the  break  had  begun.  They  reached 
the  place  as  soon  as  they  could  and  found 
a  stream  of  water  cutting  a  small  channel 
across  the  sand.  In  an  instant  Abner  was 
on  his  knees  digging  with  his  hands  and 
throwing  the  dirt  to  check  it  and  John  was 
helping  him  with  all  his  might  and  main. 
But  the  stream  was  running  faster  than 
they  were  hindering  it.  Abner  looked 
around  for  something  to  use — for  a  shovel 
— or  a  board — or  a  log — but  there  was 
nothing  in  sight. 

"We  can't  do  it,"  said  John,  "it's  no  use 
to  try." 

But  Abner  did  not  heed  him.  His  mind 
was  working  with  an  intensity  it  had  never 
known.  As  if  in  a  flash  the  stories  in  the 
book  of  how  men  had  saved  railroad 
trains  or  stopped  machinery  or  measured 
up  to  a  crisis  which  involved  life  and 
property  went  through  his  brain.  If  he 
could  only  do  something,  what  a  satis- 
faction it  would  be!  Perhaps  this  was  his 
first  great  opportunity.  But  what  could  he 
do?  Suddenly  the  idea  came.  His  ingen- 
uity rose  to  the  occasion.  Spreading  his 


ABNER.  91 

coat  tails  so  they  would  do  the  most  good 
he  sat  down  in  the  middle  of  the  channel 
and  with  a  voice  more  imperious  than  John 
had  ever  heard  he  shouted: 

"Pile  the  dirt  back  of  me!  pile  the  dirt 
back  of  me!"  Without  a  word  John  began 
the  work.  The  stream  was  checked. 
There  was  a  barrier  to  its  flow  and  John 
strengthened  it  by  more  sand,  by  pebbles, 
by  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on. 
The  emergency  had  been  met  but  it  was  by 
no  means  past.  The  water  was  chilling 
Abner  to  the  bone. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  get  up?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  do  she'll  start  again,"  John  re- 
plied. 

"Then  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  stay  'till 
somebody  comes." 

It  was  not  a  cheerful  situation  but  Abner 
took  matters  as  coolly  as  he  could  with 
cold  chills  chasing  through  every  nerve 
and  fiber.  But  there  was  no  help.  Even 
when  John  began  work  again  and  piled  in 
more  dirt  with  his  hands  all  that  he  could 
do  could  not  take  the  place  of  the  broad 
back  that  stayed  the  water's  flow. 

"It's  just  this  way,  Abner,"  he  said,  "if 
you  get  up  the  dam's  gone." 

Abner  commanded  him  again,  "Run  up 
to  the  other  end  and  turn  the  water 


Q2  ABNER. 

through  the  mill, — not  the  floodgate  but 
the  old  saw  mill." 

Off  John  went  as  fast  as  his  fat  legs 
could  carry  him.  He  threw  the  gate  open, 
letting  the  water  through  and  starting  the 
buzz  of  machinery.  Then  as  if  frightened 
at  what  he  had  done  he  hurried  back  to  the 
place  where  his  luckless  companion  was 
struggling  with  cramps  and  cold  chills. 
This  time  the  situation  seemed  to  impress 
him  humorously  and  he  asked  Abner  if  he 
felt  like  a  millionaire. 

"If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,"  replied  Ab- 
ner, "I  don't  want  to  sit  here  more  than  a 
week.  If  you've  got  any  sense  run  up  to 
Cobb's  and  tell  the  old  man  if  he  don't 
hurry  down  and  help  me  out  I'll  let  his  old 
dam  go  and  sue  him  for  damages  to  boot." 
Again  John  started,  and  after  he  had 
gone,  for  the  first  time  Abner  closed  his 
eyes  as  if  sinking  under  the  strain  and  the 
cold,  and  he  kept  them  closed  until  he 
thought  he  heard  the  noise  of  approaching 
footsteps.  When  he  opened  them  his  body 
moved  in  a  sudden  start  that  threatened 
the  safety  of  the  earth  works  which  it  sup- 
ported. Coming  towards  him  at  full  speed 
with  hands  occupied  with  a  tin  pot  and  cup 
and  saucer  and  an  umbrella  was  Jane  Cobb. 

It  is  curious  how  surprise  acts  upon  hu- 


ABNER.  93 

man  vanity.  Abner  ought  to  have  thought 
of  something  worthy  of  the  occasion  but 
the  truth  was  that  the  first  emotion  that 
went  through  him  was  the  consciousness 
that  he  had  not  been  shaved  for  three  days 
and,  worse  still,  that  his  face  had  not  been 
washed  nor  his  hair  combed  since  the 
morning  before.  But  he  did  not  have  time 
to  dwell  upon  such  things.  She  was  ap- 
proaching and  her  speed  was  overpower- 
ing. He  had  never  seen  her  excited.  She 
was  always  so  calm,  so  self  possessed.  Now 
she  was  flushed  and  trembling.  Before  he 
could  speak  she  began  to  send — between 
her  gasps — words  across  the  distance  be- 
tween them,  a  distance  which  she  was 
quickly  destroying. 

"Oh,  Abner,  isn't  it  awful!  You'll  catch 
your  death  of  cold.  Father  had  started  for 
the  upper  dam.  I  put  John  on  the  horse 
to  overtake  him.  He'll  be  here  soon.  My! 
but  you  are  brave!  Isn't  it  cold  sitting 
down  there?" 

"I've  been  in  warmer  places,  but  it  won't 
hurt  me.  I'm  never  sick,  you  know.  Why, 
Jane,  what's  that?" 

She  had  quickly  poured  some  coffee 
from  the  pot  and  handed  him  the  cup. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  awfully  chilly  in- 
side," she  said,  "so  I  brought  it,  but  I'm 


94  ABNER. 

afraid  it's  not  good.  I  was  in  such  a  hurry 
that  I  forgot  all  about  the  sugar.  Drink  it 
right  down." 

She  was  standing  at  his  side  holding  the 
umbrella  over  him — so  far  over  him  that 
she  was  not  fully  protecting  herself. 

"I'll  not  drink  a  drop,"  he  said,  "until 
you  get  under  the  umbrella.  Don't  bother 
about  me.  I'm  wet  anyhow." 

But  she  did  mind  and  although  she  took 
a  step  closer  she  did  not  leave  him  unpro- 
tected. He  put  the  cup  to  his  mouth  and 
then  more  nervously  than  before  she  ex- 
claimed, "Oh,  wait  a  minute!  Here  are 
some  quinine  pills.  Take  all  of  them,"  and 
she  poured  a  half  dozen  into  his  hand. 
Obedient  to  her  commands,  he  washed 
them  down  with  the  coffee. 

"That's  the  best  coffee  I  ever  drank  in  all 
my  life,"  he  said. 

"Why,  Abner!" 

"Yes,  he  said,  bending  forward  and 
looking  up,  "because  you  made  it  and  be- 
cause you  brought  it." 

She  gave  a  quick  scream,  "Don't  move! 
don't  move!"  she  exclaimed  and  throwing 
the  umbrella  down  she  jumped  behind  him, 
and  with  hands  full  of  dirt  repaired  the  little 
break  that  his  movement  had  made.  Then 
she  took  the  umbrella  once  more  and  stood 
at  his  side. 


ABNER.  95 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  won't  do  it 
again,"  he  said,  and  he  added,  "Jane>  you 
are  the  most  thoughtful  person  I  ever 
knew.  At  the  sale  you  were  the  only  one 
who  said  a  kind  word  to  me  and  now — " 

"Do  you  think  the  water  will  get  any 
higher?"  she  quickly  asked. 

"No.  But  I  don't  care — just  so  you  are 
here." 

"Hold  the  umbrella,  Abner,  and  I'll  pour 
you  another  cup  of  coffee.  It's  not  very 
warm  but  it's  better  than  nothing." 

He  held  the  umbrella  over  her  as  far  as 
he  could  hold  his  arm  and  wished  that  his 
arm  were  longer.  It  was  a  commonplace 
matter — pouring  a  cup  of  coffee — but 
somehow  as  she  did  it  Abner  forgot  about 
his  unwashed  and  unshaven  face  and  un- 
combed hair  and  admired  the  girl  at  his 
side,  her  graceful  ways,  her  sweet,  earnest 
face.  It  made  him  glad  that  his  better  in- 
tentions had  conquered  and  that  he  had 
saved  the  dam,  if  only  for  a  few  moments 
of  her  devoted  attention.  When  a  young 
man  feels  that  a  good  woman  is  regarding 
him  as  a  hero,  martyrdom  is  easy  and  pain 
is  naught.  Courage  comes  just  as  the 
flower  blooms  when  the  sun  shines  upon  it. 
He  felt  that  he  might  like  the  saving  of 
dams  as  a  steady  occupation,  provided  she 


96  ABNER. 

would  rush  to  his  rescue.  An  inexpress- 
ible something  surged  through  his  heart, 
and  in  the  warmth  it  brought,  the  cramps 
were  forgotten  and  he  was  happy.  He  did 
not  know  what  it  was,  but  he  did  not  know 
what  love  was,  and  he  took  the  coffee  as  if 
it  had  been  water  brought  down  between 
the  rain  drops  by  an  angel  instead  of  being 
poured  from  a  tin  pot  by  a  girl  enveloped 
in  a  red  shawl  that,  in  all  candor,  was  not 
becoming  to  her  purple  dress. 

"Jane,"  he  said,  "I'll  never  be  able  to 
thank  you  for  this.  You  are  so  good  and 
kind." 

He  might  have  said  more  but  from  the 
distance  came  the  sound  of  horses  urged  to 
their  utmost  speed. 

***** 

It  was  true  that  Abner  had  never  been 
ill  but  his  experience  that  morning  was 
too  much  even  for  his  fine  health.  It  was 
pneumonia,  and  for  several  days  the  doctor 
feared  the  worst.  But  the  worst  stopped 
at  the  narrow  line  that  separates  life  from 
death  and  when  the  recession  began  the 
patient  returned  safely  to  consciousness 
and  strength.  When  he  came  to  himself — 
it  was  an  afternoon  when  the  early  winter's 
sun  was  flooding  the  room  with  its  warmth 
and  beauty — he  saw  Jane  sitting  near  the 


ABNER.  97 

open  fire,  busily  knitting.  Before  he  could 
speak  she  had  glanced  toward  him  and  had 
interpreted  his  wondering  look.  She  arose 
and  went  to  the  bedside. 

"You  must  not  talk,"  she  said.  "You  are 
not  strong  enough  yet.  You're  getting 
well  now,  you  know,  and  the  doctor  said 
you  must  be  ouiet." 

In  his  weakness  and  helplessness  her 
domination  of  him  seemed  the  sweetest 
tyranny  he  had  ever  known.  And  he  smiled 
as  a  child  smiles  when  a  mother  tells  him 
that  he  must  be  a  good  boy. 

But  returning  health  brought  its  bless- 
ing speedily  and  then  came  days  when  he 
was  allowed  to  speak,  and  the  only  sorrows 
of  those  days  were  the  absences  of  Jane 
from  the  room,  absences  which  she  tried  to 
make,  which  Abner  with  every  resource  at 
his  command  tried  to  unmake.  One  after- 
noon she  had  read  to  him  and  he  had  asked 
her  to  stop. 

"I've  something  to  say,  Jane,  and  I'll  get 
better  faster  if  you'll  let  me  say  it  now.  I 
think  you  are  the  loveliest  girl  that  ever 
lived  in  this  world." 

She  smiled  slightly  but  instead  of  reply- 
ing picked  up  her  knitting  and  began  work. 
She  had  taken  several  stitches  when  Abner 
spoke  again. 

"Jane,  I  love  you." 
7 


98  ABNER. 

The  smile  went  away  and  a  warmth  of 
sweetness  and  roses — of  the  old  roses  that 
in  summer  bloomed  out  in  the  yard — came 
into  her  cheeks. 

"I  love  you  so  much,  Jane,  that  if  you 
can't  love  me,  I  don't  think  I  care  to  get 
well  " 

Then  the  smile  came  back,  only  it  was 
fuller  and  brighter  now,  and  she  turned  her 
chair  so  as  to  face  her  patient. 

"Abner,"  she  said,  "If  a  man  loves  any- 
body, do  you  think  it's  right  for  him  to 
talk  about  it  to  others  before  he  tells  her?" 
and  she  put  a  significant  accent  on  the 
word. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  The  second  day  af- 
ter we  brought  you  to  the  house  you  be- 
came delirious,  and  got  to  talking  about 
being  a  millionaire  and — other  things.  I 
did  not  feel  it  was  exactly  right  for  me  to 
nurse  you,  but  father  had  to  be  away,  and 
John  didn't  know  one  medicine  from  an- 
other, and  we  couldn't  get  anybody,  and  so 
it  seemed  that  I  had  to  do  it." 

This  hurt  Abner's  pride.  He  wished  she 
had  explained  it  in  some  other  way. 

"And  you  began  to  talk  about  other 
things  that  I  did  not  care  for  anybody  else 
to  hear,  and  so  I  sat  here  through  the 
days." 


ABXER.  99 

"What  other  things,  Jane?" 

"Well,  you  went  over  all  your  plans 
about  the  store  and  about  getting  rich,  and 
then  about  getting  married.  You  wanted 
a  room  where  the  sun  shone  in,  and  where 
after  you  got  through  your  work  you  could 
come  and  sit  and  watch  your  wife  while 
she  was  knitting,  and  you  said  that  you 
would  love  her  more  and  more  every  day." 

She  suddenly  changed.  "Father  heard 
you  going  over  your  plans  about  the  store, 
and  he  thinks  it's  a  good  idea  and  a  fine 
opportunity,  and  I  rather  think  that  when 
you  get  up  he  will  be  willing  to  help  you. 
In  fact,  I  believe  John  has  been  at  work 
down  at  the  cross  roads  getting  the  old 
house  ready  for  you." 

Abner  could  not  find  his  words,  his 
thoughts  were  so  confused,  his  emotions 
so  confusing.  At  last  he  was  able  to  ask: 

"Jane,  when  my  mind  came  back,  and 
I  could  see  and  know,  were  you  not  knit- 
ting?" 

"Yes,  Abner;  I've  been  knitting  nearly 
all  the  time,  but — really — I  had  to  do  it. 
It's  been  so  long  since  there  has  been  any 
knitting  done  in  the  house." 

***** 

More  than  a  year  afterwards  a  man  came 
into  the  store  and,  after  a  few  remarks  on 


IOO  ABNER. 

the  weather,  pulled  from  a  mysterious  re- 
gion of  his  innocent-looking  coat  a  vol- 
ume stamped  in  gilded  letters. 

"My  friend,"  he  said  to  John,  "I  want 
to  show  you  a  book  that  you  need;  a  book 
that  will  add  to  the  joys  of  life  as  long  as 
you  stay  upon  the  earth." 

"What  is  it  about?" 

"It  tells  of  the  happiness  of  married  peo- 
ple. It  is  a  guide  to  content,  founded  on 
the  experience  of  successful  matrimony. 
Nothing  succeeds  like  success,  and  this 
tells  all  about  success." 

"In  the  first  place,"  replied  John,  "I'm 
not  the  man  you  want,  and  secondly,  there 
is  just  about  as  much  happiness  around 
this  store  now  as  we  can  accommodate." 


"ANDY  RICK'S   HANDY 
TRICKS." 


A.NDREW  RICK  was  in  trouble.  He 
was  very  much  in  trouble.  The  trouble 
was  all  the  greater  because  it  was  such  a 
little  one.  It  is  much  easier  to  stop  the 
barking  of  a  dog  than  the  singing  of  a 
mosquito,  and  Mr.  Rick  resented  his  state 
of  mind  because  he  knew  it  to  be  entirely 
unworthy  of  him. 

It  was  this  way.  He  stood  at  the  head  of 
his  party  in  Quantico  County.  His  eleva- 
tion to  that  autocracy  had  been  entirely 
creditable  to  his  political  abilities.  Less 
than  five  years  before,  as  the  new  sheriff, 
he  had  come  to  the  county  seat  from  the 
obscurity  of  Ricktown.  With  him  he  had 
brought  Colonel  Marcellus  Bodson,  a 
grey-haired  partisan  who,  in  a  lifetime  of 
office-seeking,  had  let  his  aspirations  sink 
from  Congress  through  all  the  grades  of 
political  possibility  to  the  humble  duties 


loa      "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

of  a  deputy-sheriff.  It  was  his  last  chance, 
and  he  took  it,  partly  because  Andrew 
Rick  insisted,  and  largely  because  he  needed 
the  income.  This  was  sad,  because  the 
Bodsons  were  people  entirely  unworthy  of 
their  poverty, — especially  the  daughter, 
Miss  Julia  Bodson. 

When  the  bosses  tried  to  defeat  Rick, 
because  they  thought  him  the  sort  of  man 
who  could  be  put  aside,  Rick,  with  the  ac- 
tive assistance  of  Bodson,  utilized  the  pop- 
ular sentiment  against  the  bosses  and 
turned  the  tables. 

So  up  came  Rick.  It  was  the  happiest 
moment  of  his  life.  He  could  never  forget 
the  joy  that  filled  him  when  he  saw  himself 
chosen  unanimously  a  chairman  of  the 
County  Committee.  He  was  the  Clerk  of 
the  Court  now,  and  his  income  was  nearly 
four  thousand  dollars,  and  there  was  really 
no  reason  why  the  exhiliration  of  his  first 
victory  should  not  have  continued.  But, — 
there  are  always  buts  even  in  politics — it 
did  not  last.  He  soon  found  out  that  the 
throne  of  a  boss  was  not  an  easy  chair  pad- 
ded with  roses.  It  had  thorns.  Safety,  he 
discovered,  lay  in  getting  all  he  could  and 
then  getting  out,  and  thus  it  was  that  he 
began  to  lose  sleep. 

Ricktown  needed  a  railroad.     For  years 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      103 

Andrew  Rick  had  failed  to  recognize  this 
fact,  but  now  he  saw  it  clearly.  It  needed 
it  because  it  would  increase  the  price  of 
real  estate.  The  fact  that  Andrew  Rick 
owned  a  large  part  of  this  real  estate  may 
also  have  a  parenthetical  importance.  To 
get  the  road,  it  was  necessary  to  secure 
from  the  legislature  a  charter,  and  with  it 
legislation  authorizing  Quantico  county  to 
endorse  the  bonds.  A  man  must  be  in  the 
legislature  to  work  it,  and  therefore  Eras- 
tus  Crawley,  a  good  gray  patriot,  who  also 
owned  Ricktown  land  and  who  was  in  An- 
drew's confidence,  was  nominated.  Mr. 
Crawley  professed  great  reluctance  about 
accepting  a  place  on  the  ticket,  and  Mr. 
Rick  told  the  people  that  he  appreciated 
Mr.  Crawley's  unselfishness  in  bowing  to 
his  party  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  personal 
preferences.  The  voters  swallowed  it  all, 
and  Mr.  Crawley  was  elected.  Everything 
went  well,  and  the  railroad  scheme  was  be- 
ing so  quietly  managed  that  it  promised 
perfect  success.  But  it  so  happened  that 
the  smoothness  of  its  progress  had  a  bad 
effect  on  the  political  ambitions  of  Mr. 
Crawley.  He  had  been  in  office  before. 
The  school  in  Ricktown  district  needed  a 
new  teacher.  In  an  unhappy  moment  Mr. 
Crawley  told  Mrs.  Crawley  that  he  could 


104  ANDY    RICKS   HANDY   TRICKS. 

get  it  for  their  daughter  Mary.  After  that 
the  idea  took  possession  of  Mrs.  Crawley, 
mind,  body  and  soul,  and  Mr.  Crawley  was 
sent  off  to  town  to  see  about  it.  He  found 
Andrew  Rick  in  an  unguarded  interval,  and 
he  went  back  home  with  the  promise  of 
the  boss  that  his  daughter  Mary  should 
have  it. 

This  was  the  trouble.  Ordinarily  An- 
drew Rick  could  have  managed  it.  But 
circumstances  alter  cases.  Miss  Julia  Bod- 
son,  the  daughter  of  Colonel  Marcellus 
Bodson.  had  quietly  applied  for  the  posi- 
tion on  her  merits,  without  the  formality 
of  first  seeing  the  boss.  She  was  young 
and  charming  and  gifted,  and  Miss  Mary 
Crawley  was  not  any  of  these.  To  make 
the  case  worse,  Andrew's  wife  Jane  had 
always  been  an  intense  admirer  of  Miss 
Bodson.  When  it  was  known  that  Miss 
Julia  wanted  the  place,  she  began  to  talk 
about  it  and  to  sandwich  it  between  the 
mouthfuls  of  Andrew's  meals.  This  made 
Mr.  Rick  unhappy,  and  his  appetite  began 
to  fail. 

"You  know,  Andrew,"  Mrs.  Rick  would 
say,  "I  never  bother  you  about  offices,  be- 
cause I  don't  think  women  ought  to  have 
any  business  with  politics,  but  I  do  hope 
you  will  get  that  school  position  for  Julia. 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      105 

She  is  the  brightest  girl  in  the  county, — 
you  know  that, — and  she  needs  it  and 
everybody  wants  her  to  have  it!" 

That  was  the  trouble  again.  Everybody 
did  want  her  to  have  it,  and  he  knew  it. 

In  his  way  Mr.  Rick  was  a  good  man. 
He  was  trusted,  and  his  business  career 
had  been  without  dishonor.  People  said 
that  if  there  was  profit  to  be  got  out  of  any- 
thing he  generally  got  it, — but  then  that 
was  more  of  a  merit  than  a  failing.  These 
same  people  sometimes  said  he  was  tricky 
in  politics,  but  they  expected  that,  and  in 
a  measure  forgave  it.  A  man  in  a  rural 
community  can  do  a  great  many  things, 
provided  his  neighbors  say  "he  is  a  good 
man  in  his  home."  This  could  be  asserted 
of  Andrew  Rick  with  entire  truthfulness. 
There  was  never  a  better  husband.  He  de- 
lighted in  making  his  wife  happy,  and 
whenever  the  conversation  reached  a  time 
or  subject  when  he  could  not  say  "yes,"  he 
generally  put  on  his  hat  and  took  a  walk. 

That  was  why  he  left  the  house  and 
started  down  town.  He  went  at  once  to 
Paul  Reed's  office.  Reed  was  his  ablest 
lieutenant.  He  had  come  to  him,  so  to 
speak,  from  his  predecessor.  He  always 
respected  him  because  he  was  one  of  the 
few  men  who  seemed  to  be  serving  the 
party  without  wanting  pay  or  office. 


io6   "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

He  took  his  usual  chair,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  conversation  had  drifted  to  the 
legislature. 

"I  see  you  got  a  favorable  report  on  your 
railroad  bill,"  said  Reed.  "I  received  a 
printed  copy  to-day.  Everything  is  there 
and  it  is  all  right.  When  the  road  is  built 
I  suppose  you  will  be  getting  a  thousand 
dollars  apiece  for  building  lots  carved  out 
of  that  twenty-dollars-an-acre  farm  of 
yours." 

Andrew  laughed  and  said,  "It's  a  good 
thing  for  the  county,  isn't  it?  It  will  add 
to  the  taxable  basis,  won't  it?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,  and  incidentally 
it  may  increase  the  bank  accounts  of  An- 
drew Rick  and  Erastus  Crawley." 

There  was  another  laugh,  but  Andrew 
grew  a  little  red  in  the  face.  He  liked 
Reed,  but  he  did  wish  that  he  would  be  a 
little  less  personal. 

"By  the  way,  Andrew,  I  wanted  to  see 
you  about  a  matter.  They  are  going  to 
appoint  a  teacher  for  the  Ricktown  school 
next  week,  and  Miss  Julia  Bodson  wants 
it." 

Andrew's  cheerfulness  sank. 

"I  don't  suppose  there'll  be  any  trouble 
about  it,"  Reed  went  on.  "She  is  a  charm- 
ing young  woman,  too  good  by  far  for  the 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      107 

work,  but  I  suppose  she  needs  it,  and  she 
ought  to  have  it.  I  wish  you  would  see 
that  it  is  pushed  through  at  once." 

Andrew  shifted  uneasily  in  the  chair. 
He  tried  to  collect  himself.  He  waited  so 
long  that  Reed  asked,  "You'll  do  it,  won't 
you?" 

Andrew  stammered.  "Reed,"  he  said, 
"I've  promised  it  to  Crawley,  for  his  daugh- 
ter Mary." 

"The  devil  you  have!" 

"I  had  to  do  it,"  pleaded  Rick.  "Craw- 
ley's  wife  is  set  on  it,  and  unless  Mary 
gets  it  I'd  never  hear  the  end  of  it,  and 
Crawley  wouldn't  have  any  more  peace 
as  long  as  he  lived." 

Reed  quickly  comprehended  the  situa- 
tion. He  took  up  a  paper-knife  and  tapped 
on  the  desk  as  if  to  emphasize  his  thoughts. 

"Look  here,  Rick,"  he  said,  "you  are  go- 
ing too  far,  and  it's  about  time  that  one  of 
your  friends  gave  you  a  little  plain  advice." 

Andrew  looked  at  the  young  man  in 
amazement. 

"I  speak  plainly,"  continued  Reed,  "be- 
cause you  need  plain  speech.  You  are  get- 
ting the  idea  that  you  are  bossing  this 
county,  and  are  looking  upon  the  offices 
as  belonging  to  you  for  personal  distribu- 
tion. You  get  flattery  and  abuse,  and  you 


io8      "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

take  both  as  tributes  to  your  power.  You 
are  making  a  mistake,  and  unless  you  draw 
in  your  reins  a  little  you  will  soon  reach 
the  end  of  your  rope." 

"Reed,"  said  Andrew,  "keep  your  coat 
on  and  talk  sense." 

"Well,  I  will,"  replied  Reed.  "You  have 
said  once  or  twice  lately  that  you're  tired 
of  putting  up  with  Bodson.  You  think 
you  have  done  too  much  for  him.  Now 
the  truth  is,  you  have  used  him  in  your 
work,  and  now  that  he  is  old  and  poor  and 
is  drinking  more  that  he  ought  to,  you 
want  to  visit  all  his  weaknesses  on  his 
family." 

"Reed,  you're  going  too  far,"  said  Rick 
with  emphasis  as  he  arose.  "When  the 
place  was  promised  to  Crawley,  I  didn't 
know  Julia  Bodson  was  an  applicant." 

"That  explains  things,  but  it  does  not 
excuse  you.  You  had  no  business  to 
promise  a  school  position.  Such  places 
ought  to  be  given  on  merit  alone." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  manager,  with 
some  contempt  in  his  voice,  "you're  turn- 
ing civil  service  reformer,  are  you?" 

"It's  not  a  question  of  reform;  it's  a  mat- 
ter of  justice." 

"You  can't  run  politics  on  theories,"  said 
Andrew,  standing  in  front  of  the  desk  with 


ANDY    RICK'S   HANDY   TRICKS.  IOO, 

both  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets.  "You 
can't  distribute  offices  like  prizes  in  a  spell- 
ing bee.  You  can't  manage  a  party  like  a 
sewing  society,  but  you  can  talk  beautifully 
how  the  thing  ought  to  be  done  and  lay 
down  opinions  that  are  as  lovely  as  a 
sixteen-year-old  in  a  new  gingham  frock. 
I  know  men  in  this  country  who  are  not 
able  to  raise  a  crop  of  black-eyed  peas,  who 
think  they  can  run  the  United  States  Gov- 
ernment better  than  the  President,  the  Su- 
preme Court  and  Congress  all  put  to- 
gether, and  believe  they  ought  to  be  draw- 
ing five  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  sitting 
on  goods  boxes  and  talking  about  the 
weather.  What  has  Bodson  done  for  this 
country?  What,  except  to  swash  around 
and  speechify  and  get  into  debt?  You've 
got  to  judge  a  man  by  what  he's  done  and 
by  what  he  does,  and  you've  got  to  let  him 
manage  his  own  affairs." 

"But  the  party's  affairs  are  not  one  man's 
affairs." 

"Yes,  they  are,  if  the  party  places  him  at 
the  head  of  its  management,  and  I  defy  you 
or  anybody  else  to  say  that  I  have  not  tried 
to  do  the  best  I  could.  I'mnotgoingtolet 
up  business  principles  now  and  run  into 
sentiment.  When  I  make  a  promise  I'll 
stick  to  it,  and  what's  more,  I'm  going  to 


110  ANDY    RICKS   HANDY    TRICKS. 

depend  on  you  to  help  me  out.  You  drew 
up  that  railroad  bill  for  us!" 

"I  will  not  help  you  out  in  this  school 
appointment,"  replied  Reed  with  consid- 
erable deliberation;  "and  the  sooner  you 
get  old  Crawley  to  release  you  from  this 
pledge  the  better  it  will  be  for  you  and  the 
party.  As  for  the  railroad  bill,  I  don't  care 
a  continental  whether  you  get  it  through 
or  not." 

Andrew  stood  in  silence.  He  walked  to 
the  fire  and  meditated,  and  looked  to  the 
ceiling  and  yawned. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  if  tired  of  the  con- 
versation, "I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  I  guess 
I'll  go  home  and  go  to  bed." 


ANDY    RICKS   HANDY   TRICKS.  Ill 


II. 


THE  next  morning,  which  was  Saturday. 
Mr.  Crawley,  on  his  way  home  from  the 
legislature,  which  took  a  recess  until  Tues- 
day, called  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Rick.  The 
two  gentlemen  went  at  once  into  executive 
session. 

"The  bill  is  all  right,"  said  Crawley.  "I 
have  promised  to  vote  for  things  for  near 
about  everybody  in  the  legislature,  and 
they  are  going  to  run  our  railroad  through 
in  return.  Politics  are  just  about  as  they 
were  twenty  years  ago  when  I  was  there, 
— the  same  old  game  of  you  vote  for  my 
bill  and  I'll  vote  for  your  bill,  you  tickle 
me  and  I'll  tickle  you." 

"Don't  let  them  put  you  off  too  long," 
said  Mr.  Rick;  "their  promises  might  not 
keep." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Crawley, 
"the  bill  is  safe." 

Then  Mr.  Crawley  moved  his  chair  a  bit 
closer  and  asked,  "How  about  that  little 
appointment  for  my  daughter?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Rick  ambig- 
uously. 

"Ain't  it  all  right?" 


112  ANDY    RICKS   HANDY   TRICKS. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is.  But  you  know  Julia 
Bodson  has  applied,  and,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  she's  got  a  mighty  strong  sentiment 
back  of  her." 

"I  don't  care  if  she  has,"  Mr.  Crawley 
broke  in  vigorously.  "You  promised  the 
place,  and  you've  got  to  give  it  to  her." 

"Don't  you  see,"  expostulated  Mr.  Rick, 
"I'm  doing  all  I  can?  But  look  here, 
Crawley,  why  can't  you  let  her  wait  until 
the  next  vacancy?  It's  going  to  be  a  hard 
fight  to  make  it  this  time,  and  she  might 
be  defeated." 

Mr.  Crawley  gasped,  as  if  the  proposi- 
tion had  taken  his  breath  away.  "Great 
Scott,  Andrew,  you  don't  know  what  this 
means.  My  wife  is  set  on  it.  She  brings 
it  up  every  time  I  go  home.  I  won't  get 
any  peace  until  it's  done.  If  Mary  should 
have  to  give  way  to  Julia  Bodson,  I'd  just 
as  well  buy  a  lot  in  that  cemetery  which 
we  are  going  to  build  when  we  get  our 
railroad  to  Ricktown." 

"I  know  all  that,"  said  Mr.  Rick,  "  but 
it's  a  very  ticklish  position  for  me,  and 
will  be  very  foolish  for  both  of  us  if  we  go 
to  jeopardizing  our  railroad  by  a  fight 
over  a  little  school  appointment." 

"It's  not  that  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Crawley. 
"There  isn't  a  bit  of  danger.  You're  just 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      113 

afraid  of  Bodson;  that's  what  you  are. 
Now  why  don't  you  act  sensible?  Drop 
Bodson.  You've  done  enough  for  him, 
and  if  you'll  keep  on  trying  to  drag  him 
along  he's  going  to  drag  you  down.  He's 
a  fool,  and  you  know  it,  and  since  he  took 
to  drink  in  his  old  age  he's  worse  than  a 
fool.  No  man  ever  makes  anything  by 
backing  a  fool.  Drop  him,  Andrew,  drop 
him,  and  let  him  shift  for  himself." 

This  sounded  hard.  Mr.  Rick  felt  that 
it  was  hard,  but  it  did  seem  to  be  business- 
like. He  had  wanted  to  say  something  of 
the  sort  himself,  but  he  couldn't  do  it. 
Now  it  eased  his  mind  to  know  that  some- 
one else  had  said  it  for  him. 

Saturday  was  a  busy  day  at  the  court 
house.  Usually  Mr.  Rick  had  his  hands 
full,  attending  to  his  business  ventures. 
He  left  the  work  of  the  office  to  his  dep- 
uty. Late  in  the  afternoon  he  entered  the 
office,  and  found  Colonel  Marcellus  Bod- 
son in  a  demoralized  condition, — also  the 
work.  It  made  him  angry.  He  had  the 
ideas  of  a  man  who  had  prospered  on  tem- 
perance. He  abhorred  drunkenness.  The 
more  he  thought  about  it,  the  worse  his 
humor  became.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
room  but  the  two  men.  Mr.  Rick  suddenly 
stepped  to  the  front  of  the  desk  on  which 
8 


114          ANDY    RICKS   HANDY   TRICKS. 

Colonel  Bodson  was  resting  his  weary 
brain.  In  crisp,  clear-cut  English  he  told 
the  colonel  what  he  thought  of  him. 

"This  sort  of  thing  must  stop,"  he  said. 
"For  three  Saturdays  the  books  have  not 
been  kept  up,  and  it  can't  go  on  any 
longer." 

It  required  several  minutes  to  arouse  the 
colonel.  When  he  did  get  awake,  he  was 
vigorous  and  belligerent. 

"Then  why  don't  you  come  in  here  and 
help?"  he  asked.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  me 
you  would  never  have  been  clerk:  but  I 
am  your  deputy,  and  therefore  you  must 
draw  three  thousand  dollars  a  year,  while  I 
get  a  miserable  six  hundred  dollars,  and 
do  all  the  work.  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  I've  got  as  much  right  in  this  office  as 
you  have." 

Mr.  Rick  was  nettled.  He  turned  a 
shade  paler,  and  his  fingers  clutched  ner- 
vously at  the  leaves  of  the  book.  He  did 
not  reply  at  once,  for  he  objected  to  a 
scene.  He  had  expected  the  colonel  to 
cower  at  his  reproof. 

"If  you  want  the  books  fixed,  you  had 
better  help  do  it,"  added  the  deputy  ag- 
gressively. "You  haven't  done  an  honest 
day's  work  in  this  office  for  a  month." 

Mr.  Rick's  courage  was  not  of  the  phy- 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TKICKS."      115 

sical  sort.  At  this  attack  he  prepared  for 
a  retreat.  But  before  he  could  get  him- 
self started,  Colonel  Marcellus  Bodson,  un- 
der the  stimulus  of  his  condition,  advanced 
again  in  heavier  array  than  ever. 

"I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "what  you 
mean  by  trading  a  school  appointment  for 
Crawley's  vote  on  that  crooked  railroad 
bill  of  yours,  and  cheating  my  daughter 
out  of  her  rights?" 

His  voice  was  thick,  but  his  anger  was 
unmistakable.  As  he  spoke,  his  clearness 
of  mind  seemed  to  increase.  He  arose 
and  steadied  himself  by  holding  to  the 
desk.  Although  physically  uncertain,  he 
was  intensely  in  earnest. 

"I  am  waiting  for  an  explanation,"  he 
added  with  dignity. 

Mr.  Rick  was  totally  unprepared  for  this 
turn  in  the  interview.  As  quickly  as  he 
could,  he  asked  the  colonel  to  go  home 
and  come  back  Monday  and  settle  it  then. 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  the  colonel.  "We'll 
settle  it  now — man  to  man." 

"Then  there  is  only  one  way,"  exclaimed 
Rick,  summoning  all  his  courage.  "Leave 
the  office." 

"Not  before  you  pay  me  what  you  owe 
me."  .  i 

"You  have  overdrawn  your  account,  and 
I  don't  owe  you  a  cent." 


u6      "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

"You've  tricked  me,  and  used  me,"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Bodson,  holding  up  his  hand, 
"and  now  you  want  to  cheat  me." 

"I  repeat,  you've  overdrawn  your  ac- 
count." 

The  conversation  was  rapid.  Each  was 
under  great  excitement.  Suddenly  Bodson 
plunged  toward  Mr.  Rick.  He  seemed  to 
have  lost  his  balance,  but  Andrew  believed 
it  to  be  an  intentional  advance.  They  were 
near  the  entrance,  and  Mr.  Rick  met  the 
movement  by  grasping  his  deputy  under 
his  arm.  Before  he  could  struggle,  he 
pushed  him  out  of  the  office  and  locked  the 
door. 

When  Mr.  Rick  sat  down  he  was  trem- 
bling from  his  head  to  his  feet.  Perspira- 
tion was  standing  on  his  forehead.  He  had 
never  been  in  such  a  mess  before.  He 
would  have  given  a  thousand  dollars  to  be 
out  of  it  then.  But  it  was  not  his  fault. 
He  saw  that  clearly;  and  yet  he  knew  peo- 
ple would  talk. 

"It's  always  this  way,"  he  muttered  to 
himself.  "When  one  thing  goes  wrong, 
everything  goes  wrong." 

It  did  go  wrong  with  a  vengeance. 

He  looked  through  the  side  window. 
People  were  hurrying  toward  the  front  of 
the  court  house.  He  locked  the  safes,  and 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      117 

closed  the  shutters.  His  nerves  were  still 
rebelling,  but  he  felt  cooler  when  he  turned 
the  key  in  the  door  and  started  home. 

He  drew  near  the  outer  vestibule  of  the 
court  house.  Suddenly  he  saw  men  hold- 
ing an  improvised  stretcher,  on  which  was 
the  prostrate  form  of  Colonel  Bodson, 
from  whose  face  blood  was  flowing.  Some- 
how his  heart  suddenly  grew  sick.  Even 
the  explanation,  "The  colonel  fell  down 
the  steps  and  was  stunned — that's  all,"  did 
not  reassure  him.  He  offered  to  help,  but 
he  was  not  needed. 

As  soon  as  he  could,  he  went  miserably 
towards  his  home. 


n8     "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 


III. 

HE  entered  the  house,  staring  as  if  he 
scarcely  recognized  it.  But  when  he  passed 
on  into  the  sitting-room,  he  came  to  him- 
self as  if  from  a  shock. 

Sitting  near  the  window  was  Miss  Julia 
Bodson,  chatting  with  Mrs.  Rick  and 
praising  the  fancy  work  which  she  had  just 
completed.  Mr.  Rick  stammered  "Good 
evening,"  but  he  was  plainly  not  himself. 
Suddenly  his  wife  looked  up  and  ex- 
claimed: 

"For  mercy's  sake,  Andrew,  what  ails 
you?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said,  "only  tired — noth- 
ing at  all." 

"I  know  there  is,"  she  asserted  deci- 
sively. "You  are  as  white  as  a  ghost.  You 
look  as  if  you've  got  a  chill, — doesn't  he, 
Julia?" 

"Indeed  you  do,  Mr.  Rick,"  said  Miss 
Julia,  "and  I  am  afraid  that  Mrs.  Rick  will 
have  to  try  her  new  remedy  for  the  ague, 
which  she  has  been  telling  me  about." 

Mr.  Rick  attempted  to  smile,  but  it  was 
a  ghastly  failure. 

"I  must  be  going  now,"  said  Miss  Bod- 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      119 

son,  "I  suppose  father  has  gone  home?" 
This  to  Mr.  Rick. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Rick,  "he  has  gone." 

She  arose,  and  was  about  to  say  good- 
bye, when  Mr.  Rick  looked  at  her  and  said, 
as  bravely  as  he  could: 

"Miss  Julia,  you  must  not  be  alarmed, 
for  it  is  not  serious,  but  your  father  met 
with  an  accident,  and " 

"How?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"He  fell  and  cut  himself — that's  all.  It 
was  not  serious." 

Miss  Bodson  started  towards  the  door. 

"One  moment,  Miss  Julia,"  said  Mr. 
Rick.  "The  colonel  forgot  to  draw  his 
salary  to-day,  and  may  be  you — I  mean  he'll 
need  it.  He  might  want  some  things. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Rick,"  said  the  girl 
with  candor,  "we  shall  need  it.  Now,  good- 
bye." 

They  had  not  observed  Mrs.  Rick.  She 
had  put  on  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  when 
Miss  Bodson  started  she  said: 

"I  am  going  with  you,  dear.  Andrew, 
you'll  find  the  supper  on  the  table." 

An  hour  afterwards  Mrs.  Rick  returned. 
The  supper  was  untouched. 

"I  do  think  that  some  of  these  town  folks 
have  the  least  sense  of  any  people  I  ever 
knew,"  was  her  first  sentence.  "They  were 


120      "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

crowding  in  that  room  enough  to  suffocate 
anybody,  especially  a  man  who  had  been  in 
a  faint.  The  doctors  were  away  and  it  did 
seem  that  nobody  understood  just  what 
ought  to  be  done,  and  so  I  had  to  order 
them  all  out — all  except  Mr.  Reed  and 
Julia!" 

"Is  he  much  hurt?"  asked  Mr.  Rick. 

"After  washing  off  the  blood  and 
smoothing  out  his  hair,  Mr.  Reed  and  I 
got  the  bleeding  stopped  and  wrapped  his 
head  up  in  bandages  and  got  him  to  drink 
some  hot  coffee  and  eat  a  little  piece  of 
toast,  and  all  the  time  he  was  thanking  me, 
and  I  was  telling  him  not  to  mind  that,  for 
his  folks  would  be  glad  to  do  the  same  for 
us,  and  he  said  they  certainly  would,  and — 
no,  he  ain't  much  hurt;  he'll  be  all  right 
soon." 

Sunday  and  Monday  were  days  of  torture 
to  Mr.  Rick.  It  was  noised  around  that 
there  had  been  a  fight  between  the  two 
men,  that  Colonel  Bodson  had  been  dis- 
charged and  knocked  down;  all  sorts  of  ru- 
mors were  flying  over  the  town  and 
through  the  county.  Mr.  Rick  refused  to 
discuss  the  matter,  except  to  deny  that 
there  had  been  any  physical  difficulty.  To 
his  callers  Col.  Bodson  stated  that  the  dif- 
ferences between  Mr.  Rick  and  himself 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      121 

were  purely  personal,  but  that  they  were 
of  such  a  nature  that  he  would  not  return 
to  his  duties  as  deputy-clerk. 

Early  Tuesday  morning  Mr.  Rick  met 
Mr.  Crawley.  The  Honorable  Erastus  was 
on  his  way  to  a  train  that  would  take  him 
to  the  State  capital. 

"You  are  the  very  man  I  want  to  see," 
he  exclaimed.  "What's  all  this  I  hear  about 
Bodson?  Discharged,  is  he?  What  in  tar- 
nation were  you  thinking  about,  to  quarrel 
with  him  now?" 

"Why,  Erastus,"  gasped  Andrew,  "you 
were  the  very  one  to  tell  me  to  do  it." 

"Consarn  it  all,"  replied  the  old  man 
hotly,  "there  are  more  ways  of  getting  a 
man  out  of  your  house  than  kicking  him 
down  the  steps." 

"I  didn't  kick  him,"  retorted  Mr.  Rick, 
warming  up.  "I  didn't  even  discharge  him. 
He  discharged  himself." 

"It's  all  the  same.  Why  did  you  let  him 
do  it?  You  know  that  bill  comes  to  a  vote 
to-morrow,  and  you'll  bust  up  everything. 
Why  in  thunder  didn't  you  make  him  hold 
on?" 

Mr.  Rick  was  exceedingly  wroth,  but  the 
ruling  passion  was  still  strong.  "You  at- 
tend to  the  bill,"  he  said  "and  I'll  attend  to 
this." 


122      "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

Mr.  Crawley  was  in  a  hurry,  but  he  tar- 
ried long  enough  to  add  with  great  ear- 
nestness, "For  the  Lord's  sake,  fix  it  up 
somehow!" 

Whatever  his  other  faults  may  have  been, 
Mr.  Rick  was  a  man  of  action.  He  took 
the  dilemma  by  the  horns.  He  went  to  see 
Mr.  Reed.  He  no  longer  dictated;  he  en- 
treated. 

"Paul,"  he  said,  with  unwonted  humility, 
"if  you  will  get  me  out  of  this,  there  isn't 
anything  in  the  world  that  I  won't  do  for 
you." 

"All  right,"  replied  Reed,  "get  out  of  it." 

"But  how?" 

"Ask  the  commissioners  to  vote  for  Miss 
Bodson,  and  invite  the  Colonel  to  come 
back  into  your  office." 

"You  know  that  I  can't  do  that.  I've 
promised  Crawley,  and  I  must  keep  my 
word.  Colonel  Bodson  is  welcome  to  take 
his  place  again,  but  the  school  position — 

"Well,"  interrupted  Reed,  "I'm  just  re- 
vising a  nice  little  editorial  that  is  to  come 
out  in  the  Quantico  Weekly  the  morning  the 
commissioners  meet  to  elect  a  teacher.  I 
happen  to  own  a  large  part  of  that  great 
organ  of  public  opinion.  Here  it  is.  It  is 
headed  'Andy  Rick's  Handy  Tricks,'  and 
it  is  full  of  salt  for  your  wounds." 


"ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      123 

Mr.  Rick  took  the  proof  and  slowly  read 
it,  as  if  it  were  a  death  sentence. 

"You  wouldn't  do  that?"  he  implored. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will,  unless  you  agree  to  cer- 
tain things.  When  is  that  bill  to  be  voted 
on?" 

"Crawley  said  he'd  get  it  through  to- 
morrow." 

"How  is  your  health?" 

"All  right." 

"There  is  where  I  differ  from  you.  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  going  to  be  ill 
for  a  few  days.  Do  you  feel  any  symp- 
toms?" 

Something  began  to  dawn  on  the  mind 
of  Rick,  and  he  said  he  didn't  know;  he 
was  not  positive  either  way. 

"Well,  you  do  look  as  if  you  need  rest. 
You  will  therefore  please  get  sick  to-night, 
and  be  sure  that  you  do  not  show  yourself 
until  Sunday  morning.  In  the  meanwhile 
it  will  be  well  for  you  not  to  hinder  your 
convalescence  by  thinking  of  school  ap- 
pointments." 

"Reed,  you  don't  intend — " 

"Never  mind  what  I  intend.  I'll  save 
you  if  you'll  do  as  I  say;  but  if  you  don't 
get  sick  and  stay  sick,  'Andy  Rick's  Handy 
Tricks'  goes  into  the  Quantico  Weekly  Sat- 
urday morning." 


124      "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

Mr.  Rick  did  not  arise  from  his  bed 
the  next  morning,  and  his  indisposition 
continued  throughout  the  day.  Late  in  the 
evening  a  telegram  came  announcing  the 
passage  of  the  railroad  bill.  He  felt  like 
celebrating,  but  it  was  out  of  the  question. 
Then  came  the  hardest  part  of  it  all — the 
enforced  confinement  during  the  rest  of  the 
week. 

"I  hardly  know  what's  the  matter  with 
Andrew,"  said  Mrs.  Rick  to  Miss  Julia 
Bodson,  who  had  called  to  inquire  about 
him,  bringing  with  her  a  dainty  pudding  for 
the  invalid.  "Sometimes  I  think  it's  his 
liver,  and  then  again  I  believe  it's  nervous 
prostration.  He  says  all  he  needs  is  rest, 
but  the  doctor  has  given  him  a  lot  of  med- 
icine which  seems  to  be  doing  him  good." 

Not  even  the  artless  Jane  knew  that  the 
medicine  was  promptly  administered  out 
of  the  window;  and  the  old  gardener  who 
found  a  lot  of  pills  on  the  ground  is  still 
speculating  as  to  what  variety  of  seed  they 
are. 


"AND*  KICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS."      125 


IV. 

SATURDAY  came.  The  contest  was  to  be 
settled  i  nd  the  contestants  were  in  town. 
With  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crawley  was  Miss 
Mary  in  a  new  dress,  tight  shoes  and  abun- 
dant ribbons.  She  was  trembling  in  the 
expectation  of  the  honor.  Mr.  Crawley 
rushed  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Rick,  but  was 
informed  that  he  could  not  be  seen.  He 
came  back  mumbling  words  with  the  odor 
of  brimstone. 

The  commissioners  met.  Paul  Reed  was 
there.  The  first  vote  taken  resulted  in  four 
for  Miss  Julia  Bodson  and  one  for  Miss 
Mary  Crawley.  Just  after  the  election  was 
announced  a  letter  was  sent  to  the  board, 
and  in  it  Miss  Bodson  thanked  the  gentle- 
men for  their  kindness  and  regretted  ex- 
tremely that  the  circumstances  were  such 
that  she  could  not  accept  the  honor.  Then, 
the  election  of  Miss  Mary  Crawley  fol- 
lowed. 

Reed  went  up  to  explain  matters  to  the 
invalid.  "It  was  this  way,"  he  said,  "Miss 
Bodson  applied  for  the  school  place  be- 
fore I  asked  her  to  be  my  wife,  and  as  long 
as  she  had  applied  she  was  too  proud  to 


126      "ANDY  RICK'S  HANDY  TRICKS." 

be  defeated,  and  I  honor  her  for  it  and  did 
all  I  could  to  help  her  cause.  Andrew,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you  looking  so  much  better." 

"I  knew  all  along,"  put  in  Mrs.  Rick, 
"that  when  you  got  to  fighting  for  Julia,  it 
would  turn  out  this  way.  You  couldn't 
help  falling  in  love  with  her.  I  must  say 
that  I'm  glad  that  both  of  you  had  pride 
enough  to  make  her  win.  But,  my! 
Wasn't  old  Mrs.  Crawley  as  mad  as  a  hor- 
net, to  think  that  a  Bodson  had  beaten  a 
Crawley,  even  though  Mary  did  get  the 
place!" 

Later  in  the  evening  Andrew  grew 
strong  enough  to  dress  himself  and  go 
down-stairs.  He  picked  up  the  Quantico 
Weekly.  There  was  no  editorial  in  it  on 
"Andy  Rick's  Handy  Tricks." 


PROFESSOR    WINTERS. 


Ni 


EAR  the  front  of  the  hall  was  a  large 
tree,  and  under  it  a  group  of  seniors  had 
lingered  after  the  recitation.  The  day's 
work  was  over,  and  there  was  none  of  the 
rush  of  the  earlier  hours.  They  had  gos- 
siped a  few  minutes,  when  a  tall,  smooth- 
faced gentleman  emerged  from  the  build- 
ing and  sauntered  coolly  by. 
"Good  afternoon,  Professor." 
"Good  afternoon,  gentlemen." 
He  bowed  his  head  slightly  as  he  spoke, 
in  acknowledgment  of  the  salutation,  but 
showed  no  emotion  in  the  formality.  His 
placid  face  seemed  fixed  in  an  expression 
of  exact  complacency.  It  was  hard  to  an- 
alyze it,  but  if  there  was  anything  in  it  of 
a  characteristic  sort  it  was  a  hazy  sugges- 
tion of  a  far-away  smile,  a  kind  of  skepti- 
cal appreciation  of  the  humorous  absurd- 
ity of  life  and  living.  The  man  himself  did 
not  walk,  in  the  proper  meaning  of  the 
word.  He  moved  as  if  propelled  by  an  in- 
terior machine  that  had  been  well  oiled  and 
that  did  its  work  in  its  own  peculiar  way. 


128  PROFESSOR   WINTERS. 

When  he  passed  it  was  an  easy  matter  for 
the  gossips  to  take  up  his  name  and  sport 
with  it. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Ohio,  "if  Professor 
Winters  ever  had  an  emotion  beyond  a 
placid  smile,  and " 

"A  smile  is  not  an  emotion,  it  is  an  ex- 
pression," interrupted  Pennsylvania. 

"I  think  that  he  has,"  put  in  New  York, 
seriously.  "I  believe  he  is  a  man  of  deep 
feeling,  only  he  does  not  show  it." 

"And  now  is  the  Winters  of  our  discon- 
tent made  glorious  summer  by  this  Duke 
of  York,  or  words  to  that  effect,"  said 
Ohio,  and  the  group  smiled  obligingly. 

"All  the  same,"  said  New  York  again, 
"I  believe  that  Winters  is  a  man  of  more 
heart  than  any  of  you  give  him  credit  for." 

"Oh,  come,  now,"  interrupted  Ohio, 
"don't  be  ridiculous.  Old  Winters  prob- 
ably has  an  anatomical  mainspring  that  he 
winds  once  a  week,  or  he  may  have  a  stor- 
age battery  that  he  charges  every  ten  days, 
but  it  is  all  bosh  to  say  he  has  such  a  thing 
in  him  as  a  heart." 

"I  was  not  speculating,"  said  New  York, 
"but  was  speaking  from  experience.  I  went 
to  him  the  other  day  on  a  little  matter  on 
which  I  wanted  some  impartial  advice,  and 
he  gave  me  just  the  assistance  I  needed,  and 


PROFESSOR   WINTERS.  129 

I  came  away  stronger  for  having  gone.  He 
is  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  all  wool  and 
a  yard  or  so  wide." 

A  young  man,  tall  and  dark-haired, 
strong  of  limb,  with  melancholy,  clear-cut 
features,  which  are  oftenest  called  classic, 
had  listened  to  the  conversation  with 
increasing  interest.  When  he  heard  this 
last  sentence  he  moved  off  and  sauntered 
down  the  grove  in  the  direction  the  profes- 
sor had  taken.  He  looked  as  if  he  was  try- 
ing to  solve  a  doubt;  then  he  seemed  to 
pull  himself  together  more  vigorously  and 
swung  out  his  arms  and  went  forward  in 
a  brisk  walk. 

In  five  minutes  he  was  at  the  residence 
of  Professor  Winters.  He  found  the  pro- 
fessor at  home.  Knowing  that  Mr.  Win- 
ters was  one  of  the  most  industrious  men 
of  the  faculty,  and,  in  addition  to  his  large 
work,  a  constant  contributor  to  period- 
icals and  a  rapid  worker  in  everything  he 
undertook,  it  seemed  strange  to  find  such 
perfect  system  in  the  working-room,  and 
it  increased  the  impression  that  Professor 
Winters  was  a  higher  development  of  a 
human  machine  in  which  ordinary  emo- 
tions and  weaknesses  had  no  place.  The 
professor  turned  from  his  desk  by  the  win- 
dow and  asked  his  visitor  to  be  seated. 
9 


130  PROFESSOR   WINTERS. 

"This  is  Mr.  Hall,  of  the  senior  class,  I 
believe." 

The  young  man  bowed,  paused  a  mo- 
ment after  sitting  down,  and  then,  in  a 
clear,  straightforward  voice,  said,  "Pro- 
fessor, I  have  come  to  you  for  some  ad- 
vice. I  am  very  anxious  to  finish  my 
course  and  get  my  degree,  but  there  are 
certain  circumstances  at  home  which  make 
it  doubtful,  if  not  impossible.  The  trouble 
is  a  lack  of  finances.  I  do  not  think  my 
father  will  be  able  to  keep  me  here  another 
term.  I  have  no  resources  of  my  own,  nor 
do  I  know  of  any  one  to  whom  I  could 
apply,  and  I  came  to  ask  you  if  you  will 
suggest  to  me  any  way  by  which  I  may 
earn  enough  to  graduate.  I  came  to  you 
because  I  thought  you  would  give  me  prac- 
tical advice  and  not  because  I  wished  any 
sympathy." 

As  soon  as  the  last  six  words  had  been 
uttered  Hall  would  have  given  anything  to 
recall  them,  but  it  was  too  late,  and  the 
professor  was  smiling  as  if  appreciating 
them. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "you  are  one  of  those 
who  believe  that  sympathy  is  the  weakness 
of  women  and  the  luxury  of  the  rich." 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  replied  Hall.  "I 
think  it  is  sometimes  very  manly  and  often 


PROFESSOR   WINTERS.  131 

very  strengthening,  but  in  a  case  of  dollars 
and  cents  it  is  rather — rather " 

"Inadequate." 

"Thank  you.  It  doesn't  give  one  enough 
to  stand  on  and  just  now  I  need  something 
solid." 

"Well,  we  will  eliminate  sympathy  as  a 
factor  in  the  problem;  but  you  will  let  me 
say  that  I  think  it  would  be  a  great  pity  for 
you  to  be  obliged  to  give  up  at  this  time 
when  your  chances  seem  so  excellent.  In 
the  first  place,  are  you  sure  that  your  father 
will  not  be  able  to  bear  the  expenses  of 
the  remainder  of  the  term?  They  will  not 
be  heavy." 

"He  has  not  said  so,  but  I  am  expecting 
every  day  to  hear  it.  My  sister  has  had  to 
give  up  her  school  position  in  order  to 
nurse  those  at  home,  and  I  know  that 
father  has  debts  to  meet.  I  have  tried  to 
do  something  in  the  way  of  writing,  but 
my  articles  will  not  be  paid  for  until  they 
are  published." 

The  professor  smiled.  "We  will  also 
eliminate  that.  Have  you  thought  of  any- 
thing else?" 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  thought  of 
everything,  and — nothing." 

"Could  you  not  borrow  enough  from 
some  of  your  friends  at  home?  You  will 
soon  be  able  to  pay  it  back." 


13*  PROFESSOR   WINTERS. 

"I  know  of  no  one,  and  besides  that,  my 
father,  as  I  said  before,  has  debts  which 
must  be  met.  He  has  sacrificed  and  the 
family  have  sacrificed  comforts  to  keep  me 
here,  and  since  the  fever  came  in  the  house 
I  know  that  they  need  every  cent  of  the 
income,  which  is  not  large  in  such  a  place 
as  Waverly." 

"Waverly?  By  the  way,  is  my  old  friend 
Pindar  there  now?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  is  at  the  head  of  the  high 
school." 

"I  cannot  understand  Pindar.  He  was  the 
brightest  man  of  our  class,  and  yet  he  bur- 
ies himself  in  a  town." 

"Waverly  is  a  pleasant  place  to  be  bur- 
ied in,"  said  Hall  loyally,  but  somewhat 
ambiguously. 

"Doubtless  it  is;  but  a  man  of  his  ability 
has  no  right  to  bury  himself  anywhere.  It 
seems  to  me  that  Pindar  ought  to  be  will- 
ing to  help  you  out." 

"There  are  certain  circumstances  that 
make  this  impossible,"  said  Hall,  coloring 
a  little. 

"As  I  understand  it,  then,"  continued  the 
professor,  "you  are  not  absolutely  sure 
that  you  cannot  stay  here.  That  being  the 
case,  my  advice  to  you  is  to  wait  until  you 
hear  something  definite  from  your  father. 


PROFESSOR  WINTERS.  133 

You  naturally  feel  sorry  that  your  family 
is  making  certain  sacrifices  for  you,  but 
you  should  remember  that  you  will  be  able 
to  doubly  repay  all  that  has  been  done  if 
you  are  graduated  and  do  as  well  as  your 
career  here  promises." 

"Thank  you,  Professor,"  said  Hall,  as  he 
arose. 

"Suppose  you  let  me  know  as  soon  as 
you  do  hear." 

"I  will,  with  pleasure,  and  I  thank  you 
again." 

Before  Hall  had  gone  out  of  the  room 
the  professor  had  returned  to  his  work, 
and  as  the  young  man  glanced  back 
through  the  closing  door  he  saw  him  writ- 
ing away  as  if  nothing  had  interrupted  his 
labors. 

Hall  carried  a  very  heavy  heart  that  week. 
He  saw  Professor  Winters  in  the  recitation- 
room,  and  late  Friday  afternoon  he  saw 
him  going  toward  the  station  with  a  sat- 
chel, but  he  had  no  conversation  with  him. 
The  letters  from  home  were  brief  bulletins 
of  the  condition  of  the  sick.  "As  to  that 
other  matter,  my  son,"  said  a  postscript, 
"I  cannot  tell  until  next  week." 

Monday  arrived,  and  with  it  the  resump- 
tion of  the  routine. 

Tuesday  morning  Professor  Winters  had 
a  visitor. 


1^4  PROFESSOR   WINTERS. 

"You  must  pardon  me,"  said  Hall.  "I 
received  a  letter  in  the  early  mail,  and  the 
news  was  so  good  that  I  had  to  come  to 
tell  you.  It's  all  right.  I  can  finish  my 
course." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  pro- 
fessor. 

Hall's  joy  was  too  great,  apparently,  to 
be  subdued  by  the  impervious  tranquillity 
of  Mr.  Winters.  In  his  enthusiasm  he 
pulled  out  the  letter. 

"You  must  let  me  read  what  father 
writes,"  he  said.  "  'It  seems  to  me,  my 
son,  that  Providence  has  a  way  of  step- 
ping in  just  when  hope  seems  well-nigh 
hopeless,  and  of  making  all  things  right. 
How  it  happened  or  who  was  the  instru- 
ment of  it,  I  do  not  know  and  cannot  tell, 
but  the  matters  which  pressed  most  have 
been  lifted  and  you  can  finish  your  course.' 
And  look,  Professor,  at  this  postscript! — it 
is  by  my  sister — 'It  has  done  us  more  good 
than  all  the  doctors  and  all  the  medicines. 
God  bless  you!'  " 

The  professor's  composure  was  lightened 
by  an  indefinite  smile,  and  he  repeated,  "I 
am  very  glad  to  hear  it." 

"I  thought  you  would  be,  and  that's  why 
I  came  to  tell  you,"  replied  Hall. 


PROFESSOR   WINTERS.  135 

"If  you  will  wait  a  moment  I  will  walk 
over  to  the  hall  with  you,"  said  the  profes- 
sor. 

As  they  went  Professor  Winters  ques- 
tioned Hall  as  to  his  plans  after  gradua- 
tion. "I  have  only  one  suggestion  to 
make,"  he  said,  as  they  were  parting,  "and 
that  is  do  not  decide  too  hastily.  Do  not 
commit  yourself  to  a  place  when  better  op- 
portunities may  occur.  If  you  come  to  me 
before  you  decide  I  shall  be  glad  to  do 
what  I  can  to  help  you." 

Hall  thanked  him  and  said  that  he  would 
follow  his  advice. 

***** 

There  was  the  usual  scene  on  com- 
mencement-day— crowds  of  pretty  girls  in 
summer  dresses  showering  smiles  and 
compliments  on  restless  young  men; 
groups  of  proud  parents  trying  to  feel 
comfortable,  and  some  of  them  feeling  very 
uncomfortable  in  the  effort;  assortments 
of  styles  and  faces  from  the  four  points  of 
the  compass;  professors  unbending  their 
dignity  and  condescending  to  anecdote  and 
repartee;  flowers  for  the  favorites,  and 
general  impatience  to  do  r.nd  to  see  and  to 
hear,  and  to  have  it  all  over  with  and  rush 
away  to  dinner — with  bright  words  for 
everybody,  a  little  gossip  in  the  corners, 


136  PROFESSOR   WINTERS. 

and  a  plenty  of  romance  under  the  trees, 
and  the  whispering  of  vows  that  were  to  be 
forgotten  before  the  summer  flirtations 
reached  the  middle  of  August. 

In  the  audience  everybody  was  nervous 
to  see,  and  on  the  stage  everybody  was 
nervous  about  being  seen.  Each  actor  in 
the  little  drama  of  the  day  had  his  admir- 
ers, and  everybody  but  the  garrulous  old 
graduate  who  had  come  back  to  find  that 
he  antedated  modern  history  had  some- 
body to  love  a  little  bit  and  to  applaud  very 
much. 

Most  of  them  looked  at  Professor  Win- 
ters, who  had  leaped  higher  into  fame  be- 
cause he  had  been  selected  to  fill  the  presi- 
dency of  a  rich  university  which  a  Western 
plutocrat  had  established;  but  they  could 
not  get  up  much  enthusiasm  for  him  be- 
cause, as  one  of  them  expressed  it,  he  was 
"enveloped  too  heavily  in  his  own  refriger- 
ation." 

And,  after  all,  a  professor  isn't  much  on 
commencement-day,  except  as  a  figure  on 
the  platform  to  fill  up  the  background. 
Moreover,  the  proceedings  had  begun,  and 
as  the  orators  one  by  one  went  through 
their  greatest  efforts  they  were  the  heroes, 
and  they  got  the  applause  and  the  attention 
and  the  flowers.  The  proceedings  moved, 


PROFESSOR   WINTERS.  137 

as  all  commencement  proceedings  do,  with 
a  sublime  disregard  of  the  hardness  of  the 
benches  or  of  the  flight  of  time.  And 
when  they  were  nearing  the  conclusion, 
everybody  was  intellectually  gorged  and 
otherwise  hungry. 

But  when  the  valedictory  was  reached 
most  of  them  forgot  their  hunger,  or  pre- 
tended that  they  did,  and  welcomed  the  tall 
young  man  with  the  classic  face  most 
heartily. 

Everybody,  too,  seemed  to  applaud — 
everybody  but  an  old  gentleman  and  a 
young  lady  who  sat  beside  him,  whose  de- 
linquency was  fully  made  up  by  a  well- 
conditioned  man  sitting  next  to  them,  who 
clapped  his  fat  hands  until  his  face  was 
beaded  with  perspiration. 

Henry  Hall  was  such  a  fine  fellow,  and 
had  won  the  valedictory  honors  so  well, 
that  all  his  classmates  indorsed  his  fame; 
and  as  he  stood  before  the  audience,  grace- 
ful and  self-possessed,  the  demonstrations 
were  really  fine.  He  saw  his  father  settle 
himself  for  the  test;  he  saw  his  sister  bend 
forward  as  if  wanting  to  inspire  him  for 
his  ordeal,  and  he  read  in  the  genial  face 
of  Professor  Pindar  something  which  ap- 
peared to  say,  "My  boy,  the  Waverly  High 
School  is  with  you." 


138  PROFESSOR   WINTERS. 

And  then,  when  the  quiet  came,  he  be- 
gan. His  oration  was  on  "Optimism  as  a 
Force  of  Civilization."  He  spoke  well.  In 
a  minute  he  said  something  that  brought 
forth  a  ripple  of  applause.  This  gave  him 
confidence,  and  the  confidence  was  in- 
creased when  he  saw  that  he  had  the  com- 
plete attention  of  his  audience.  He  con- 
tinued admirably.  The  next  applause  was 
more  general  and  more  generous,  and  it 
got  better  all  along.  The  points  in  his  ad- 
dress were  well  placed,  and  each  one 
scored.  When  he  closed,  the  assemblage 
responded  beautifully,  giving  him  a  demon- 
stration that  eclipsed  anything  of  the  day. 

The  little  group  was  happy.  Professor 
Pindar  beamed  like  an  aurora  borealis. 
Miss  Hall  was  pale  at  the  beginning,  but 
when  the  applause  sealed  her  brother's 
triumph  she  turned  to  her  father  with  a  big 
red  spot  in  each  cheek  and  a  moist  uneasi- 
ness around  her  eyes,  and  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Hall,  not  trusting  to  speech,  let  his  big 
hand  fall  at  his  side,  where  it  clasped  a 
smaller  hand  in  an  expression  of  joy  that 
meant  more  than  all  the  syllables  in  the 
language. 

When  the  benediction  was  pronounced 
and  the  band  began  to  play,  the  group,  led 
by  Professor  Pindar,  made  their  way  to  the 


PROFESSOR  WINTERS.  139 

stage.  Henry  Hall  met  them,  and  Profes- 
sor Pindar,  slapping  him  on  the  back  and 
exclaiming  "Good  boy,"  kept  on  until  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  old 
classmate. 

"Winters,"  he  said,  "I  want  you,"  and 
before  Winters  could  object  he  was  pulled 
along  and  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
group. 

"Dr.  Hall — Professor  Winters.  Miss 
Hall — Professor  Winters,"  and  as  Profes- 
sor Winters  bowed  Pindar  continued,  "You 
are  going  to  dine  with  us.  You  promised, 
you  know.  We  positively  won't  eat  with- 
out you,  and  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  men- 
agerie. 

"Well,"  replied  Professor  Winters,  "as 
I  have  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Hall  I 
shall  be  glad  to  go  with  you,  provided  you 
let  us  two  walk  together  and  get  our  talk 
over  before  the  festivities  begin."  It  was 
agreed,  and  off  they  started. 

The  party  had  a  table  to  themselves. 
Pindar  presided,  and  somehow  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  guests,  which  was  no 
arrangement  at  all  beyond  the  accidental 
taking  of  seats,  Professor  Winters  and 
Miss  Hall  were  in  conversational  proxim- 
ity. Compliments  and  congratulations 
were  heaped  upon  the  graduate  until  his 


140  PROFESSOR    WINTERS. 

blushes  threatened  to  take  away  his  ap- 
petite. 

"It's  the  same  old  thing,  this  commence- 
ment experience,"  said  Pindar;  "the  same 
old  thing,  except  new  faces  and  new  fash- 
ions." 

"And  yet  it  always  has  a  fresh  interest," 
said  Dr.  Hall.  "A  commencement  is  more 
than  anything  else  an  epoch  in  life — about 
the  only  epoch  that  some  of  us  have.  All 
the  other  things  are  incidents." 

"Of  course,"  Professor  Winters  was  say- 
ing to  Miss  Hall,  "I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave. 
It  has  been  pleasant  here,  and  one  gets 
attached  to  a  place,  even  when  its  person- 
nel is  constantly  changing.  A  college  is 
something  like  a  great  big  mill,  that  grinds 
out  graduates,  but  the  miller  and  the  as- 
sistant millers  love  the  mill  even  though 
the  grist  is  constantly  going  away." 

Pindar  said  something  about  chaff,  but  it 
made  no  impression,  because  Miss  Hall 
was  speaking. 

"I  know  that  Henry  will  be  sorry  to  part 
with  you,"  she  said,  "for  he  has  mentioned 
you  so  often  in  his  letters  that  we  all  felt 
as  if  we  were  acquainted  with  you." 

Henry  and  the  professor  exchanged  glan- 
ces and  smiled,  and  when  the  smile  seemed 
to  beget  an  air  of  mystery  Henry  ended  it 
by  saying: 


PROFESSOR   WINTERS.  141 

"Professor  Winters  has  offered  me  a 
position  in  his  new  university — an  under- 
professorship." 

Then  there  were  volleys  of  questions  and 
replies,  and  when  Henry  said,  "Yes,  I  have 
accepted,"  Pindar  spread  out  his  hands  and 
exclaimed,  "Bless  you,  my  children!" 
Then,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
which  he  should  not  have  done,  he  inter- 
locked his  fingers,  and  continued  with  un- 
natural seriousness: 

"There  are  secrets  that  should  be  kept 
forever  inviolable,  and  there  are  secrets 
that  outlive  the  rights  of  secrecy.  Perhaps 
you  folks  did  not  know  that  a  certain 
pedagogue  named  Winters  surreptitiously 
came  to  Waverly  about  five  months  ago 
and  did  certain  things  that  enabled  a  cer- 
tain young  man  to  graduate.  Of  course 
I  promised  him  never  to  tell,  but  what's  a 
promise  among  friends?" 

"Pindar,"  said  Winters,  "you  are  a 
traitor." 

The  effect  was  peculiar.  Dr.  Hall  laid 
down  his  fork  and  gazed  at  the  professor. 
Henry  Hall  blushed  still  more  deeply,  and 
Miss  Hall's  eyes  filled  up  again  with  the 
moist  uneasiness,  but  something  was  added 
to  it. 


142  PROFESSOR   WINTERS. 

In  the  conversation  which  followed  Win- 
ters ruined  the  reputation  of  a  lifetime.  He 
lost  his  composure  entirely. 

"Now,  please  don't  thank  me,"  he  said, 
nervously.  "It  was  a  small  matter — simply 
taking  up  a  note  and  waiting  a  few  months 
longer  for  payment.  I  was  selfish  about 
it.  I  saw  Mr.  Hall's  ability,  and  I  wanted 
him  to  go  with  me  in  our  new  university. 
I'll  take  him  for  security — and  really  I  must 
soon  be  going;  and.  Miss  Hall,  if  you  are 
ready  I'll  be  very  glad  to  show  you  the 
buildings." 

***** 

In  the  last  week  in  August,  Ohio,  Penn- 
sylvania and  New  York  sat  smoking  on 
the  veranda  of  a  hotel  in  the  Adirondacks. 
They  had  met  that  day  after  spending  the 
summer  at  various  resorts.  When  the  talk 
drifted  back  to  college  days,  Ohio  re- 
marked: 

"I  see  that  Winters  is  getting  a  strong 
faculty  for  his  new  university.  By  the 
way" — this  to  New  York — "did  you  ever 
find  out  whether  or  not  Winters  really  had 
a  heart?" 

"I  think,"  replied  New  York,  "that  you 
had  better  ask  Hall's  sister." 

"You  don't  mean " 

"Yes,  I  do  mean  it,  and  it's  a  very  funny 


PROFESSOR   WINTERS.  143 

story.  I  passed  through  Waverly  a  few 
weeks  ago  on  a  coaching  trip  and  was  told 
all  about  it.  Winters  has  an  old  classmate 
there  who  was  courting  Miss  Hall  with  a 
great  deal  of  industry.  Well,  Winters  made 
him  a  visit  and  cut  him  out.  It  was  a 
pretty  mean  thing  to  do,  and  it  proved  to 
me  that  while  Winters  may  have  a  heart 
he  has  no  soul.  No  man  with  a  soul  could 
play  such  a  trick  on  a  friend."  „  . 


AN  OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN. 


w, 


HEN  the  Hon.  Warwick  Jones  drove 
over  from  the  county-seat  to  Forkbridge 
district  and  offered  Stephen  Booz  the 
nomination  for  Sheriff,  Mr.  Booz  said, 
frankly,  that  he  did  not  want  it. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Jones, 
"but  you've  got  to  take  it.  We've  been 
running  things  a  little  too  strong  for  the 
people,  and  that  independent  movement  is 
getting  dangerous.  The  other  districts  are 
going  to  give  us  a  hard  pull,  and  Fork- 
bridge's  majority  must  be  our  salvation. 
The  folks  around  here  have  confidence  in 
you,  and  your  name  will  carry  the  ticket 
through.  We  can't  help  what  you  wish; 
you've  got  to  take  it." 

"But  the  expense — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  You  don't  want 
to  spend  your  money?  Very  well.  I'll  get 
enough  out  of  the  others  to  supply  you." 

"How  much?" 

"Will  a  thousand  do?" 

"Better  make  it  two.  And  look  here — if 
I  go  on  the  ticket,  not  a  soul  is  to  know 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  145 

about  my  consent  until  I  give  it.  Fix  it  up 
yourself,  and  give  me  the  time  to  straighten 
out  a  few  things." 

So  it  was  settled.  The  Hon.  Warwick 
Jones  drove  back  home,  and  told  the  two 
men  associated  with  him  in  the  ring  the  re- 
sults of  his  visit.  "It  will  cost  us  about 
fifteen  hundred  dollars,"  he  said,  "and  at 
least  half  of  it  will  go  into  old  Booz's 
pocket;  but  we've  got  to  do  it  or  be  whip- 
ped." 

***** 

Mr.  Booz  was  not  new  in  politics, 
although  his  name  had  never  been  on  a 
ticket.  Early  in  his  experience  he  had 
found  out  that  the  man  who  handled  the 
finances  had  a  safer  and  surer  way  of  mak- 
ing money  than  the  man  who  ran  for  office. 
This  fact  was  impressed  upon  his  mind  by 
the  prosperity  of  the  bosses  and  the 
chronic  bankruptcy  of  the  candidates.  So 
when  he  plunged  into  affairs  of  state  it  was 
as  a  district  manager,  and  not  as  a  party 
champion.  His  partisanship  had  a  finan- 
cial value,  and  it  was  chiefly  for  the  finan- 
ces that  he  was  a  partisan,  his  idea  of  poli- 
tical economy  being  entirely  personal. 

And  yet  he  was  a  man  of  decided  in- 
fluence. He  knew  the  people — knew  their 
weaknesses.  He  had  their  confidence,  be- 
10 


146  AN    OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

cause  he  always  paid  his  debts;  he  lived 
plainly  and  well,  and  he  put  on  no  unneces- 
sary airs.  To  Mr.  BDOZ,  open  irregularity 
of  any  kind  was  worse  than  criminal — it 
was  foolish;  but  quiet  cunning  was  another 
thing. 

Mr.  Booz's  political  education  had  taught 
him  that  a  thorough  preparation  was  worth 
a  year  of  open  campaigning.  Thus  he  be- 
gan at  once. 

Sunday  came.  He  had  heard  that  an  ap- 
peal was  to  be  made  to  pay  off  part  of  the 
church  debt.  He  was  promptly  on  hand 
with  a  pleasant  salutation  for  everybody. 
It  was  a  plain  rural  congregation,  in  a 
region  uncontaminated  by  railroads  and 
the  larger  accessories  of  civilization.  The 
minister  got  only  four  hundred  dollars  a 
year,  and  the  church  finances  were  corres- 
pondingly modest. 

Just  after  the  sermon  a  request  was  made 
for  one  hundred  dollars.  As  usual,  two  of 
the  members  were  asked  to  take  up  the 
contributions.  Results  came  tardily  but 
gradually  the  items  added  up  to  about  sixty 
dollars. 

Here  was  Booz's  opportunity.  Beckon- 
ing to  one  of  the  solicitors,  he  said,  in  a 
whisper  which  was  quite  distinct  to  those 
near  him,  "Put  me  down  for  forty  dollars." 

This  gave  great  satisfaction. 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  147 

At  the  end  of  the  service  the  minister 
came  down  from  the  pulpit,  shook  hands 
with  his  people,  and  finally  reached  MX 
Booz. 

"Brother  Booz,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  to 
see  you  here,  sir — very  glad  to  see  you,  sir, 
and  I  want  to  thank  you  for  your  generos- 
ity." 

"Not  generosity,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Booz,  cheerily,  "but  duty,  plain  duty.  I 
don't  come  to  hear  your  fine  sermons  as 
often  as  I  ought,  and  when  I  do  come  it  is 
right  for  me  to  make  up  a  little  for  my  de- 
ficiency, especially  when  you  and  your 
church  are  doing  such  good  work  for  us. 
In  fact,  I  don't  know  of  a  country  church 
anywhere  that  could  give  us  more  interest- 
ing services  or  a  better  congregation  than 
we  have  had  to-day." 

All  this  fell  into  fruitful  soil,  and  at  every 
dinner  that  day  the  name  of  Booz  got  its 
meed  of  praise. 

Two  days  afterward  Mr.  Booz,  while 
driving  along  the  road,  met  Rev.  Josiah 
Brown,  the  pastor  of  the  colored  church. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Booz." 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Brown.  How  are 
you  getting  along  at  your  church?" 

"Slowly,  sir,  slowly.  The  people  hev  no 
money  scarcely,  and  it's  hard  to  make  both 


148  AN    OFFENSIVE    PARTISAN. 

ends  meet.  We  wanted  to  fix  up  the  church, 
but  I  guess  we'll  hev  to  wait  till  times  gits 
better." 

"That's  bad,  very  bad.  I  don't  like  to 
see  a  useful  man  like  you  hampered  in  that 
way.  I  suppose  twenty  dollars  wouldn't 
help  you  much,  would  it?" 

"Twenty  dollars!  'Deed  it  would,  sir — 
'deed  it  would." 

"Well,  now,  if  you  will  just  take  the 
money  and  go  ahead,  and  not  mind  about 
where  it  came  from,  I'll  be  glad  to  give  it 
to  such  a  good  cause." 

Rev.  Mr.  Brown  was  profuse — yes,  su- 
perabundant in  his  thanks.  The  two  crisp 
ten-dollar  notes  made  his  face  look  ten 
years  younger.  Booz  knew  perfectly  well 
that  what  he  said  about  not  being  known 
in  the  matter  would  give  an  impetus  to  the 
spreading  of  his  name  in  a  quiet  and  effect- 
ive way.  If  anything  will  set  the  average 
negro  talking,  it  is  a  half-secret. 

That  night  Mr.  Booz  had  eaten  his  sup- 
per, and  was  enjoying  his  pipe  on  the 
porch.  Suddenly  he  looked  up  and  said  to 
his  wife,  the  faithful,  industrious  helpmate 
whose  management  had  enabled  him  to  be- 
come a  self-made  man: 

"Miranda,  you  were  talking  some  time 
ago  of  having  the  folks  here?" 


AN   OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN.  149 

"Yes,  Stephen;  but  you  said  it  would  be 
too  much  trouble." 

"Did  I?  Well,  I  guess  I  was  wrong. 
Suppose  you  do  it.  I  believe  I  would  en- 
joy it  myself.  And,  Miranda,  while  you 
are  about  it,  why  not  make  it  a  nice  affair? 
Get  all  the  folks  here,  young  and  old. 
We're  travelling  along  in  life,  and  I  don't 
see  why  we  shouldn't  celebrate  a  little,  and 
show  our  friends  that  we  are  glad  to  see 
them." 

"I  declare,  Stephen,  you're  getting  real 
sensible." 

"Oh,  I  showed  that  a  good  while  ago." 

"I'd  like  to  know  when?" 

"When  I  married  you,  of  course.  And, 
Miranda,  that  knot  was  tied  twenty-five 
years  ago  this  Wednesday  two  weeks.  It's 
been  so  pleasant,  let's  have  it  tied  over 
again,  and  invite  the  people  to  see  it  done." 
*  *  *  *  * 

These  little  ripples  in  the  uneventful  life 
of  Forkbridge  district  had  a  decided  effect 
upon  the  reputation  of  Mr.  Booz.  His 
name  had  always  been  respected;  now  it 
was  becoming  popular. 

A  week  after  the  silver  wedding  anni- 
versary, which  the  correspondent  of  the 
county  paper  described  as  "the  grandest 
society  event  Forkbridge  district  had 


J|l50  AN    OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

|  known  for  years,"  the   convention   met   in 

I  the  court-house  at  Quantico.     It  was  about 

|  fifteen  miles  from  Forkbridge,  the  modest 

metropolis    of    Forkbridge    district,    and 

Forkbridge  was  just  a  mile  from  the  Booz 

farm. 

Mr.  Booz  knew  that  the  news  of  the 
convention's  work  would  reach  the  village 
shortly  after  supper.  He  had  eaten  his 
evening  meal,  and  was  standing  at  the 
front  gate. 

"Miranda,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  down 
to  the  store  to  get  a  new  bridle  strap.  Any 
errands  you  want?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of." 

He  walked  slowly  at  first;  then  quick- 
ened his  step;  then  slowed  up  again  as  he 
neared  the  village.  He  went  at  once  to  the 
store,  and  began  to  make  his  purchase  and 
talk  about  the  weather  and  the  crops. 

Suddenly  the  rumbling  of  wheels  was 
heard,  and  in  a  minute  more  one  of  the  del- 
egates to  the  convention  had  drawn  up  his 
team  in  front  of  the  store. 

"What's  the  news?"  asked  several  at 
once. 

The  delegate  descended  from  the  car- 
riage as  if  he  had  a  message  from  the 
President,  and  in  self-important  tones  an- 
nounced, "They've  nominated  Stephen 
Booz  for  Sheriff." 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  151 

"They've  done  what?"  demanded  Booz, 
appearing  at  the  door. 

"They've  nominated  you  for  Sheriff." 

"Get  out!" 

"It's  a  fact.  Nominated  you  unani- 
mously." 

"Well,  well,"  says  Booz,  musingly,  "if 
this  don't  beat  creation!  I  know  it's  a  big 
honor,  gentlemen,  but  it's  such  a  surprise 
that  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  Seems  to 
me,  though,  they'll  have  to  get  somebody 
else." 

To  this  there  were  general  protests,  and 
amid  them  Mr.  Booz,  wearing  an  expres- 
sion of  troubled  indecision,  started  home. 
The  news  had  quickly  spread,  and  he  met 
several  people  on  his  way.  The  greetings 
with  each  were  about  the  same. 

"I  see  they've  nominated  you  for  Sher- 
iff?" 

"Yes,  yes.  But  if  I'd  know'd  they  were 
going  to  do  it,  I'd  stopped  the  whole 
thing." 

"Won't  you  accept?" 

"That  depends — that  depends/ 

When  he  reached  home,  Miranda  asked 
the  old  question  so  familiar  in  the  country: 

"What's  the  news?" 

"Bad  news." 

"What?" 


152  AN    OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

"They've  nominated  me  for  Sheriff." 
Mrs.  Booz,  with  all  her  practical  mind, 
was  a  woman  of  ambition.  She  sighed  for 
the  experience  of  town  life,  and  this  long- 
ing had  been  intensified  by  the  social  suc- 
cess of  the  wedding  anniversary. 

"Bad  news?"  she  exclaimed.  "Well,  I 
guess  not,  and  if  you  don't  take  it,  there'll 
be  trouble  in  this  family." 

***** 

The  contest  in  the  district  was  undoubt- 
edly to  hinge  on  the  temperance  question. 

Michael  Cassin's  liquor  store  in  Fork- 
bridge  had  done  great  injury.  Cassin  was 
a  man  whose  moral  record  was  worse  than 
his  whiskey,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible. 
He  was  a  drunkard  himself,  and  he  encour- 
aged drunkenness.  His  miserable  saloon 
became  the  one  foul  blot  upon  the  repu- 
tation of  the  neighborhood.  But  a  man 
seldom  gets  too  low  to  wield  a  certain  in- 
fluence. It  was  so  in  Cassin's  case.  He 
had  a  strength  among  the  rough  elements 
of  the  population  that  made  his  assistance 
desirable  in  a  political  contest.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  decent  people  had  decided 
to  make  a  plain  fight  against  him,  and  de- 
termined to  vote  for  no  one  who  did  not 
say  that  he  would  favor  local  option  and 
temperance  reform  in  the  district. 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  153 

The  leader  of  the  temperance  party  was 
John  Canton,  an  old  man,  who  was  so 
good  and  so  earnest  that  he  never  knew 
how  to  be  politic  or  suspicious. 

Booz  knew  Canton  well,  and  to  his  house 
he  made  a  visit.  They  talked  about  neigh- 
borhood topics  for  a  while,  until  Mr.  Can- 
ton remarked,  "I  see  they've  nominated 
you  for  Sheriff?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "they  have,  but 
why  in  the  world  they  did  it  I  don't  know; 
I'm  too  settled  down  to  go  to  running  into 
politics,  and  yet  people  come  nagging  at 
me  to  accept.  Now,  Mr.  Canton,  I  want 
to  ask  a  favor  of  you;  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
just  what  to  do.  Ought  I  to  take  it  or 
not?  You  know  how  I  stand,  and  how  I 
feel  about  the  interests  of  this  district,  and 
there  is  nobody  whose  opinion  I'd  rather 
have  than  yours." 

Mr.  Canton  stroked  his  white  beard 
meditatively,  felt  flattered  at  being  ap- 
proached in  such  a  way,  and  finally  said, 
"Brother  Booz,  I  think  you  owe  it  to  your 
district  to  accept." 

When  Mr.  Booz  passed  down  the  road 
on  his  way  home  there  was  a  smile  on  his 
face.  He  did  not  smile  often,  and  when  he 
did  smile  it  meant  something. 

The  next  day,  just  after  twilight,  Booz 


154  AN    OFFENSIVE    PARTISAN. 

and  Cassin  met  at  an  obscure  fence  corner 
just  outside  the  village.  They  talked  low 
and  earnestly. 

"Cassin,"  said  Booz,  "I  must  depend  on 
you  again,  and  you'll  be  paid  for  it  better 
than  ever;  but  don't  talk  too  friendly  about 
me;  don't  let  the  temperance  people  have  a 
chance  to  think  I  ain't  for  them  and  against 
you.  Just  get  your  boys  all  right,  and 
make  them  keep  their  mouths  shut.  You 
understand?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Booz,  I'll  do  it." 

"And  look  here,  Cassin,  you're  patron- 
izing your  own  bar  too  much.  Don't  make 
a  fool  of  yourself." 

Mr.  Booz  found  it  convenient  to  have 
some  important  business  to  transact  at 
Quantico,  a  ruse  for  a  conference  with  the 
Hon.  Warwick  Jones.  He  drifted  into  Mr. 
Jones'  office  as  if  it  were  an  accident,  but 
just  as  soon  as  the  doors  were  closed  the 
real  business  began.  Mr.  Jones  gave  him 
a  thousand  dollars  in  cash,  with  a  promise 
of  five  hundred  more  in  two  weeks. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Jones, 
after  he  had  handed  him  the  money,  "that 
the  other  side  has  endorsed  young  Madi- 
son for  re-election?" 

"So  I  heard." 

"Well,  he  must  be  defeated.  We've  got 
to  down  him  if  we  lose  half  of  our  ticket, 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  155 

but  we  want  to  do  it  without  losing  any  of 
it.  You  see,  he  has  made  the  best  State's 
Attorney  we  have  ever  had,  and  he  is  grow- 
ing so  confoundedly  strong  with  the  people 
that  we  must  head  him  off,  or  he  and  his 
independent  following  will  run  away  with 
us.  I  hear  he  is  mighty  popular  in  your 
district  because  he  prosecuted  the  liquor 
people?" 

"Yes;  they  think  right  smart  of  him  up 
there." 

"And  I  hear  that  the  temperance  ques- 
tion is  going  to  play  the  devil  with  you  this 
fall?" 

"It'll  try,  but  politics  ain't  a  monoply. 
Two  can  play  at  it." 

"That's  the  point,  and  when  you  play  I 
want  you  to  win.  Now,"  after  a  pause, 
"how  will  you  manage  it?" 

"Leave  it  to  me.  I'll  go  home  and  look 
over  the  ground,  and" — holding  up  the 
thousand  dollars — "place  this  fertilizer 
where  it  will  grow  the  biggest  crop." 

Booz  went  home,  but  the  more  he  looked 
over  the  ground,  the  worse  he  liked  it. 
Mike  Cassin's  store  was  an  argument  too 
big  for  him  to  get  over.  He  could  not  de- 
nounce it  openly,  because  he  depended  up- 
on Cassin's  assistance.  The  best  thing  he 
could  do  was  to  preserve  an  uncomfortable 


156  AN   OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN. 

neutrality.  And  everybody  knows  what 
lukewarmness  is  in  a  temperance  fight. 

At  first  the  people  were  surprised,  then 
suspicious,  and  finally  critical. 

The  decent  sentiment  was  rapidly  con- 
solidating, and  it  all  favored  Madison. 

Henry  Madison  was  an  excellent  speci- 
men of  young  manhood,  a  handsome, 
vigorous  fellow,  with  a  sterling  integrity 
that  had  been  tried  and  proven.  As  the 
prosecuting  attorney  he  had  done  more  to 
punish  rascality  in  the  county  than  any 
three  of  his  predecessors.  He  had  been 
particularly  severe  on  violations  of  the 
liquor  laws,  and  the  people  believed  in  him. 
"Our  hopes  of  purifying  this  district,"  said 
Mr.  Canton,  "depend  on  Mr.  Madison's  re- 
election." 

Booz  knew  that  something  had  to  be 
done,  and  done  quickly,  but  he  saw  no 
solution  for  his  dilemma. 

A  severe  case  of  blues  was  the  conse- 
quence. He  walked  up  and  down  the  floor 
of  his  room.  Occasionally  he  stepped  to 
the  window  to  look  out  and  see  if  some 
kind  angel  would  be  good  enough  to  give 
him  an  idea. 

While  he  was  thinking  and  gazing,  an 
extraordinary  incident  took  place.  Two 
young  men  approached  the  house  and  ling- 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  157 

ered  under  his  window.  He  recognized 
them.  One  was  his  son,  John  Booz,  as 
harum-scarum  a  fellow  as  the  county  con- 
tained, who  more  than  made  up  for  all  the 
staidness  of  his  parents.  The  other  was 
Joseph  Hendrow,  the  hired  man,  and  the 
companion  of  John  in  all  his  adventures. 
These  two  boys — they  were  boys  of  over 
twenty  years — were  practical  jokers,  and 
nothing  was  too  extravagant  for  their  mis- 
chief-making. On  this  occasion  Mr.  Booz 
could  see  by  the  moonlight  that  they  were 
striving  to  stifle  their  laughter.  Then  they 
began  to  talk,  and  Mr.  Booz  caught  such 
fragments  as  these: 

"It'll  scare  him  to  death." 

"I'm  'most  sorry  we  did  it.  Come  to 
think  it  all  over,  it's  a  solemn  thing  playing 
with  a  corpse  that  way." 

"Yes,  it  is.  But  old  Cassin  ruined  him, 
and  he  always  said  he'd  haunt  Cassin." 

Mr.  Booz  was  now  filled  with  curiosity. 
He  slipped  quietly  down-stairs,  and  ap- 
pearing suddenly  before  the  boys,  de- 
manded, "What  have  you  two  fellows  been 
doing?" 

They  faltered  at  first,  but  finally  told 
their  story. 

The  two  roisterers  and  Jim  Barnes,  a 
boy  of  sixteen  who  lived  on  the  adjoining 


158  AN    OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

farm,  had  found  the  corpse  of  "Catfish 
Bob,"  the  meanest  and  ugliest  tramp  in  the 
district.  When  a  young  man,  Bob  had  been 
brought  from  the  city  to  Forkbridge.  He 
was  a  good  worker,  and  he  accumulated 
some  money,  but  Cassin  put  out  his  snares 
and  lured  him  to  his  den.  He  rapidly  be- 
came a  drunken  loafer.  From  loafing  he 
drifted  into  thieving,  and  he  combined  the 
vices  so  well  that  he  was  never  sober  ex- 
cept when  in  jail,  and  was  never  out  of  jail 
except  through  a  miscarriage  of  justice. 
Everybody  considered  him  a  nuisance,  and 
only  two  days  before,  Cassin  had  told  him 
never  to  come  into  his  place  again  under 
penalty  of  a  thrashing.  When  the  boys 
found  Bob's  corpse  it  was  cold.  Twilight 
was  deepening  into  darkness,  and  as  they 
discussed  what  to  do  with  it  a  sudden  mis- 
chief seized  them.  They  would  take  the 
body  and  palm  it  off  in  some  w?y  on  Cas- 
sin. He  had  caused  the  wreck  of  Bob's 
life;  that  wreck  should  now  haunt  his  con- 
science, if  conscience  he  had.  One  of  the 
bovs  went  to  the  saloon — it  was  on  the 
edge  of  the  village,  near  the  woods  in 
which  the  corpse  was  found — to  see  what 
could  be  done. 

He  found  Cassin  just  drunk  enough  to 
be  surly,  and  no  one  else  in  sight. 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  159 

He  drew  Cassin  to  the  other  side  of  the 
house  and  talked  with  him,  while  the  other 
two  boys  slipped  the  corpse  into  the  sa- 
loon, and  set  it  up  in  the  darkest  corner. 
Then  Cassin  was  called,  and  with  as  much 
art  as  they  could  bring  into  play  they  made 
it  appear  that  the  stranger  had  invited  them 
to  join  him  in  a  drink.  A  glass  was  passed 
to  the  corpse,  and  quietly  drained,  and 
while  Cassin  was  replacing  the  bottle  the 
corpse  was  rearranged.  Then  with  osten- 
tatious good-byes  they  left  Cassin  alone 
with  the  mysterious  stranger.  Jim  Barnes, 
however,  remained  to  watch  developments, 
and  they  were  now  waiting  for  his  appear- 
ance. 

At  first  Mr.  Booz  was  too  much  aston- 
ished by  the  story  to  say  anything,  but  at 
last  he  stammered  out:  "Boys,  you  ought 
to  be  cowhided.  It's  awful.  Suppose  the 
shock  kills  Cassin?" 

The  boys  began  to  be  frightened  but  just 
then  Jim  Barnes  came  running  up  the  lane. 
His  breath  was  short,  but  between  gasps 
he  blurted  out:  "About  five  minutes  after 
you  left,  old  Cassin  asked  the  fellow  if  he 
was  going  to  pay  up.  No  answer.  Then 
he  asked  again.  No  answer.  Then  Cassin 
told  him  if  he  didn't  settle  he  would  come 
over  and  shake  it  out  of  him.  No  answer. 


l6o  AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

Til  make  you  talk,'  says  Cassin.  No  an- 
swer again.  Then  Cassin  walked  around 
and  struck  a  match,  and  saw  it  was  Bob. 
Well,  he  fired  up  like  gunpowder,  and 
pitched  right  on  him.  'Didn't  I  tell  you 
not  to  come  here  no  more?'  he  bawled,  and 
then,  cursing  and  swearing,  he  hit  him, 
knocked  him  over,  and  kicked  him  toward 
the  door.  Cassin  waited  a  while  for  Bob 
to  get  up,  but  of  course  he  didn't.  Bob 
was  laying  flat  on  his  back.  Cassin  lit  a 
match  and  held  it  over  Bob's  face,  and 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  dead  he  jumped 
back  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  I  had  enough, 
and  I  left." 

"Boys,"  said  Mr.  Booz,  "this  is  a  dan- 
gerous piece  of  business,  and  I  warn  you 
not  to  say  a  word  about  it  to  anybody. 
Mind,  not  a  word." 

*  *  »  *  * 

Mr.  Booz  walked  around  the  corner  of 
the  house  with  his  head  bowed  deep  in 
thought.  Unconsciously  he  took  the  little 
path  that  led  to  the  yard  gate,  and  he  was 
suddenly  awakened  from  his  abstraction  by 
a  click  of  the  latch  and  the  whisper  of  a 
hoarse  voice. 

"Mr.  Booz,  I  want  to  see  you." 
"Why,  Cassin,  is  that  you?     What's  the 
matter?" 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  l6l 

"I'm  in  trouble.  Can  you  walk  down  the 
road  with  me  a  piece?  I  don't  want  to  go 
in-doors." 

They  walked  in  silence  for  a  minute,  and 
then  Booz  asked  him  to  tell  his  story. 

"Mr.  Booz,  I'm  afraid  I've  killed  that 
tramp  Bob.  But  it  was  in  self-defence;  it 
was  in  self-defence;  I  swear  it  was." 

Booz  always  let  the  other  man  speak 
first.  He  reserved  his  opinions  and  con- 
clusions. His  idea  now  was  to  let  Cassin 
tell  his  story,  and  then  to  exculpate  him  of 
any  guilt  in  the  matter;  but  as  soon  as  he 
saw  what  a  brilliant  lie  Cassin  was  con- 
cocting, he  determined  to  encourage  it  to 
the  end. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  he  asked. 

"You  know,  sir,  that  I  told  him  not  to 
come  in  my  place  again.  But  he  did  come, 
and  he  ordered  drinks  and  wouldn't  pay  for 
them,  and  when  I  tried  to  make  him  pay, 
he  grabbed  up  an  axe  and  said  he  would 
split  my  head  open." 

This  was  too  much  even  for  Booz.  He 
gasped  audibly. 

"Did  you  say  anything,  sir?" 

"No.     Goon." 

"I  watched  my  chance  and  hit  him,  and 
then  I  waited  for  him  to  git  up;  but  he 
didn't  git  up,  and  when  I  looked  at  him 
ii 


l62  AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

close  he  was  dead.  Oh,  sir,  what  must  I 
do?" 

Booz's  sympathy  had  gradually  oozed 
out  under  the  pressure  of  Cassin's  mendac- 
ity. In  its  stead  a  brilliant  idea  came. 

"Cassin,"  said  he,  "wasn't  it  you  who 
taught  Bob  to  drink?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  guess  I  did,  but — but  I  never 
killed  anybody  before." 

"No,  not  right  at  once.  You  generally 
poison  them  with  that  whiskey  of  yours. 
Now,  Cassin,  who  was  present  when  this 
affair  took  place?" 

"Nobody  but  us  two,  sir.  Your  boys 
and  Jim  Barnes  was  there  just  before,  but 
they  left,  and  we  was  alone  together." 

"That's  bad — very  bad." 

"Bad?     How,  sir?" 

"Simply  this,  Cassin.  People  won't  be- 
lieve your  testimony.  They  are  down  on 
you  here.  You're  a  bad  character." 

"I  know  it,  Mr.  Booz — I  know  it;  but  I 
never  killed  anybody  before." 

"But  your  whiskey  has." 

The  fellow's  anxiety  was  becoming  in- 
tense. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Booz,  what  to  do.  I've 
served  you.  Please  don't  turn  your  back 
on  me  now." 


AN  OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN.  163 

"Cassin,  my  advice  to  you  is  to  leave  this 
neighborhood,  and  leave  it  for  good.  I'll 
buy  your  place  and  pay  you  in  cash." 

"But  if  they  discover — " 

"Leave  that  to  me.  What  if  those  boys 
should  swear  that  they  found  that  corpse  in 
the  woods  and  carried  it  in  your  house? 
Do  you  understand?" 

Cassin  understood,  and  his  gratitude  was 
almost  pathetic.  The  two  men  went  back 
to  the  house.  The  deed  for  the  sa- 
loon was  drawn  up  and  the  money  was 
paid.  Of  course  Booz  got  a  bargain;  he 
always  did;  but  justice  compels  the  admis- 
sion that  he  paid  a  hundred  dollars  more 
than  Cassin  asked,  simply  because  the 
saloon-keeper,  in  his  fear  and  remorse, 
offered  the  property  at  half  its  value,  and 
Booz's  conscience,  tough  as  it  was, 
couldn't  go  quite  that  far,  especially  when 
the  party's  money  was  paying  for  it. 
*  *  *  *  * 

People  spoke  of  Bob's  death  as  a  very 
good  riddance,  and  there  were  no  suspicions 
of  foul  play.  The  next  evening  Cassin 
quietly  left  the  neighborhood,  never  more 
to  return.  He  carried  with  him  a  plentiful 
supply  of  advice  and  almost  two-thirds  the 
value  of  his  property.  Both  came  from 
Stephen  Booz. 


164  AN   OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN. 

When  it  was  announced  that  Cassin  had 
gone,  there  was  general  surprise.  Booz 
did  not  wish  to  encourage  it  too  exten- 
sively, so  he  spent  the  whole  night  in 
thought  and  in  transferring  these  thoughts 
to  paper.  It  was  rather  hard  on  the  sta- 
tionery, but  Booz  knew  the  tremendous 
importance  of  saying  just  enough  and  no 
more,  and  the  less  he  said,  the  more  he 
wanted,  and  the  more  he  said,  the  less  he 
wanted.  It  was  the  struggle  of  a  great  in- 
tellect over  a  campaign  trick.  At  last  the 
result  came,  and  it  came  in  this  form,  care- 
fully written  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper: 

"NOTICE! 

"This  place  will  no  longer  be  an  eyesore  to 
the  town.  It  has  been  bought  by  me,  and  it 
will  be  closed,  pending  repairs,  to  be  opened 
by  my  son,  John  Booz,  as  a  first-class  store. 
No  liquors  of  any  kind  will  be  kept  or  sold. 
All  bills  for  liquor  owed  Michael  Cassin  are 
cancelled. 

"STEPHEN  Booz." 

When  the  people  read  this  the  next 
morning  they  were  thoroughly  astonished. 
Astonishment  soon  gave  way  to  pleasure. 
Even  the  old  topers  liked  it.  The  debts 


AN  OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  165 

that  had  been  hanging  over  them  so  long 
were  taken  off.  They  could  begin  all  over 
again.  Through  all  the  excitement,  Booz 
maintained  an  impassive  serenity.  It  was 
a  good  bargain  for  him.  He  knew  very 
well  that  he  would  never  collect  the  bills, 
if  he  tried  twenty  years.  Moreover,  he  had 
had  the  only  good  liquors  and  the  best 
bottles  quietly  removed  to  his  house  at 
night,  and  when  the  old  bottles  and  bar- 
rels were  rolled  out  of  the  saloon  and 
publicly  destroyed,  the  liquid  that  flowed 
from  them  was  mainly  water  sufficiently 
flavored  to  give  it  an  aroma  of  alcohol  and 
wickedness.  It  was  a  great  time  for  Mr. 
Booz,  and  he  accepted  all  the  thanks  and 
congratulations  with  the  easy  manner  of  a 
professional  philanthropist. 

"Ah,  Brother  Booz,"  said  Mr.  Canton, 
wringing  his  hand  piously,  "let  me  thank 
you  for  your  good  work  in  purging  this 
district  of  that  saloon." 

"Mr.  Canton,  I've  only  done  my  duty, 
sir,  as  I  understood  it.  You  people  have 
been  accusing  me  of  all  sorts  of  things,  and 
saying  that  I  was  opposed  to  temperance. 
While  you  preached  I  acted,  and  I  think  I 
have  done  more  in  one  day's  work  than  my 
enemies  have  done  in  five  years.  I  hope 
that  we  will  understand  one  another  better 
hereafter." 


l66  AN  OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN. 

Mr.  Canton  said  unhesitatingly  that  he 
and  his  followers  had  done  Mr.  Booz  an 
injustice.  The  reaction  was  even  greater 
than  the  former  opposition.  The  tide 
turned  decisively  toward  Booz.  He  had 
all  the  currents  just  where  he  wanted  them, 
and  he  was  so  confident  of  his  control  that 
he  began  to  direct  them  against  Madison. 
The  first  results  were  successful,  and  he 
easily  foresaw  the  defeat  of  the  courageous 
young  attorney.  In  the  abundance  of  his 
confidence  he  sat  down  and  began  a  letter 
to  the  Hon.  Warwick  Jones.  He  wrote: 

"Forkbridge,  October  25. 
"Mr.  Warwick  Jones: 

"Dear  Sir — I  think  we're  all  right.  I've 
settled  the  temperance  business  by  buying  out 
Cassin,  and  thus  removing  the  big  point  on 
which  they  were  fighting.  I  will  be  elected 
sure,  and  I'm  quite  certain  that  the  ticket  is 
safe.  As  to  Madison," — here  he  turned  to 
another  of  the  small  sheets  of  paper  on 
which  he  was  writing,  and  continued — "we 
will  defeat  him  in  this  district  without  a  doubt, 
if  you  will  only  send  us  five  or  ten  more  tons 
of  that  fertiliser." 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  door,  and  a 
voice  announced,  "Mr.  Booz,  a  gentleman 
in  the  parlor  wants  to  see  you." 


AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN.  167 

Booz  went  down  and  confronted  Madi- 
son. He  was  surprised,  but  he  concealed 
his  feelings  in  an  extra  show  of  cordiality. 
In  Forkbridge,  hospitality  is  a  religion 
above  politics  or  business. 

"Mr.  Booz,  I  hope  we  are  alone,"  said 
Madison.  "I  wish  to  talk  to  you  confi- 
dentially about  a  little  matter." 

"Certainly,  sir;  go  ahead.  We  are  safe. 
But" — with  a  laugh — "I  warn  you  before- 
hand that  I  cannot  vote  for  you." 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  Madison,  with 
peculiar  emphasis. 

Booz  grew  serious.  "I  don't  under- 
stand," he  said. 

"Then  I'll  explain.  In  the  first  place, 
I'm  going  to  win  in  this  election." 

Booz  smiled. 

"And  what's  more,  you're  going  to  help 
me." 

Booz's  smile  grew  broader. 

"You  think  you  have  checkmated  me  in 
buying  out  Cassin's  store  and  shutting  up 
that  saloon.  It's  a  neat  trick,  but  it  may 
be  an  expensive  one  to  your  family." 

"Expensive?  How?"  Mr.  Booz's  smile 
faded  away. 

"Who  killed  'Catfish  Bob'?" 

"Killed?    Whiskey,  I  guess." 

"It  did?  Why  did  Cassin  run  away  just 
after  his  death?" 


l68  AN   OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

"Did  he  run?    I  thought  he  just  moved." 

"I'll  ask  you  a  third  question.  Who  pre- 
tended that  they  found  Bob's  body,  and 
smuggled  it  into  Cassin's  store?" 

Booz  became  strangely  uneasy.  "What 
do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"I  mean  that  circumstances  I  know  of 
point  to  your  son  as  one  of  the  figures  in  a 
mystery  that  may  demand  an  investigation 
from  me  as  prosecuting  attorney  of  this 
county." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Booz  opened  the  door. 
Booz  grasped  the  opportunity,  and  arose 
from  his  seat.  "You  want  me?  All  right. 
Mr.  Madison  will  excuse  me  a  minute." 
And  before  Mrs.  Booz  could  say  anything 
he  was  pushing  her  out  and  closing  the 
door  behind  him.  As  soon  as  he  could  he 
asked,  "Where's  John?"  John  was  in  the 
yard,  and  straight  to  him  the  candidate  for 
Sheriff  went. 

"John,"  he  said,  "who  was  with  you 
when  you  found  that  corpse?" 

"I  was  by  myself,  but  I  called  the  other 
boys  from  the  road  just  as  soon  as  I  found 
it." 

"Where's  Jim  Barnes?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Madison  has  taken  him  in 
his  law  office  down  to  Quantico." 


AN  OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN.  169 

Booz  turned  at  once  toward  the  house. 
He  did  not  hear  his  son  ask,  "What's  the 
matter?"  for  he  was  thinking  and  deciding 
what  to  do.  He  returned  to  the  room, 
and  resumed  his  seat  with  as  much  ease 
as  he  could. 

"Excuse  this  interruption,  Mr.  Madison. 
I  had  to  get  some  money  for  my  wife. 
Wives  are  almost  as  bad  as  assessment 
committees.  But  we  were  speaking  about 
the  Cassin  matter.  Surely,  Mr.  Madison, 
you  do  not  think  that  my  son  could  be 
guilty  of  anything  so  wrong?" 

"Perhaps  not;  but  an  investigation  like 
this  would  be  a  serious  affair — a  very  seri- 
ous affair.  Suppose  that  evidence  of  blows 
should  be  found  on  Bob's  body?  Suppose 
that  not  two  weeks  before  his  death  your 
son  quarrelled  with  him?" 

Booz  knew  very  well  that  Cassin  had 
struck  Bob;  he  knew  how  ugly  the  whole 
affair  would  look.  For  a  minute  he  left 
Mr.  Madison's  question  unanswered,  but 
he  finally  raised  his  head,  and  with  a  smile 
said:  "Mr.  Madison,  I  don't  think  you  will 
be  defeated.  The  sentiment  in  this  district 
is  very  strong  in  your  favor." 

"I  esteem  your  opinion  very  highly,  Mr. 
Booz,  and  I  take  your  word  for  it." 


170  AN  OFFENSIVE   PARTISAN. 

''You  wouldn't  do  me  a  favor,  I  sup- 
pose?" said  Mr.  Booz,  with  another  smile. 

"Certainly,  if  I  could." 

"Well,  send  that  boy  Barnes  up  here  for 
about  two  hours." 

Both  men  looked  at  each  other,  and 
Madison  laughed  heartily. 

"No,  I  can't  do  that,"  he  replied;  "it 
wouldn't  be  safe." 

When  Madison  left,  Booz's  smile  settled 
down  into  a  rugged  frown.  He  walked  to 
the  yard  where  John  was,  and  taking  him 
by  the  shoulder,  said:  "John,  if  you  find 
any  more  corpses  around  this  district,  let 
'em  alone.  Mind,  I  tell  you,  let  'em 
alone." 

And  going  into  the  house,  he  slammed 
the  door,  and  marched  up-stairs  to  finish 
his  letter.  He  destroyed  the  second  sheet 
on  which  he  had  written,  and  took  a  fresh 
one,  and  after  the  words,  "As  to  Madison," 
he  continued: 

"It  is  impossible  to  defeat  him.  Sentiment 
here  is  too  strong.  Everybody  is  for  him. 
The  rest  of  the  ticket,  though,  can  be  put 
through.  I've  used  the  fertilizer  you  recom- 
mended. It  has  been  well  distributed.  Please 
send  me  five  or  ten  tons  more  as  soon  as  you 
can.  Am  sorry  about  Madison,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  Yours,  in  haste, 

"Stephen  Boo*." 


AN  OFFENSIVE  PARTISAN.  171 

The  Hon.  Warwick  Jones  frowned  and 
swore  when  he  read  that  letter,  for  he  knew 
that  Booz  was  a  true  prophet.  And  so  in- 
deed he  was. 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 


WE 


'E  are  on  a  single  track  railroad.  There 
is  no  store  of  any  kind  in  the  place  and  the 
hucksters  are  so  irregular  that  good  house- 
wives who  are  members  of  church  have 
been  known  to  wager  things  on  whether  or 
not  these  condescending  gentlemen  with 
the  hooded  wagons  would  be  around. 
When  the  meat  fails  to  come  from  the  city 
and  the  huckster  either  sells  out  before  he 
reaches  Sunnyside  or  forgets  to  come  at 
all  we  eat  eggs.  This  explains  why  a  Sun- 
nyside cook-book  is  more  worn  in  the  egg 
chapters  than  in  all  the  other  portions,  and 
surely  in  the  world  there  is  not  a  place 
where  the  egg  is  more  wondrously  and 
more  beautifully  diversified  than  in  Sunny- 
side  Park. 

We  were  talking  about  it  one  night  at 
the  doctor's,  after  conversation  had  devel- 
oped that  everybody  had  eaten  eggs  for 
breakfast  that  day  and  Mrs.  Bloom  had  to 
send  around  and  borrow  the  remaining 
supply  because  company  had  come  un- 
expectedly for  luncheon. 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  173 

"If  the  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of 
the  soul  be  true,"  said  the  doctor, — "I  do 
not  believe  it  is  true,  but  you  cannot  always 
tell  aboutxsuch  things, — and  if  in  the  next 
existence  we  should  find  it  true,  I  think,  as 
friends  and  neighbors,  we  should  all  agree 
to  flock  together." 

The  idea  of  flocking,  by  a  correct  but  un- 
expected logical  process,  led  on  to  the  prop- 
osition that  we  form  a  literary  club.  We 
were  distinctly  not  literary.  Indeed,  our 
only  literary  passions  were  those  resulting 
from  the  neglect  of  the  train  clerk  to  throw 
off  our  morning  papers.  But  we  needed 
something  to  bring  us  together  and  stimu- 
late our  intellectual  faculties,  and  the  idea 
seemed  to  fit.  It  was  agreed  to  with  con- 
siderable enthusiasm  and  we  promptly  cal- 
led upon  the  doctor  for  all  details  of  or- 
ganization. He  had  particular  notions 
concerning  the  carrying-out  of  the  plan, 
and  he  said: 

"Let  us  select  a  new  name,  a  good  Am- 
erican name.  Let  us  do  honor  to  one  of 
our  own  writers  whose  work  has  been 
ignored  in  the  naming  of  clubs." 

Immediately  there  was  a  general  desire 
that  the  doctor  supply  the  name  of  the  un- 
remembered  genius.  But  he  replied  that  it 
was  best  to  put  it  off  until  the  next  meeting, 


174  SLUMBERING   JOSEPH. 

when  the  suggestions  of  all  could  be  re- 
ceived and  acted  upon. 

We  followed  his  advice  and  the  next 
meeting  was  a  great  success.  All  the  lit- 
erature we  knew  was  carefully  gone  over, 
and  it  was  really  surprising  how  familiar 
we  were  with  most  of  the  names.  Our 
combined  intelligence  gave  us  a  higher  and 
a  finer  appreciation  of  ourselves;  in  fact  we 
had  begun  to  soar  upon  the  wings  of  self- 
admiration  when  the  business  of  the  even- 
ing pulled  us  suddenly  back  to  the  earth. 

What  name  was  best?  Which  should  we 
select?  Irving?  He  was  promptly  ob- 
jected to  because  he  had  been  overused  in 
the  literary  club  business.  Edgar  Allen 
Poe?  He  went  down  without  a  particle  of 
justification  before  the  opposition  of  a  vice- 
president  of  a  woman's  temperance  so- 
ciety. Then  Howells  was  mentioned,  and 
he  was  unjustly  slaughtered  in  the  primar- 
ies because  Mrs.  Hopson  said  his  women 
were  not  satisfactory.  Then  Mr.  Bloom 
suggested  Longfellow,  but  the  young  Hen- 
derson girl  replied  that  if  he  were  chosen 
she  would  not  be  able  to  think  of  the  club 
without  repeating,  "Life  is  real,  life  is 
earnest,"  and  that  was  worse  than  Mark 
Twain's  "Five  cent  fare." 

"Why  not  Mark  Twain?" 


SLUMBERING   JOSEPH.  175 

The  question  came  from  several  mem- 
bers. At  first  the  double  name  was  con- 
sidered undesirable  and  when  a  Twain 
Club  was  mentioned,  Wilson,  who  thinks  he 
is  a  wit,  quietly  but  promptly  said  that  it 
sounded  like  the  deuce.  We  were  getting 
deeper  and  deeper  when  the  doctor  pro- 
posed that  we  compromise  the  matter. 
This  we  finally  did  and  we  called  it  the 
Shakespeare  Club. 

When  it  came  to  the  election  of  officers, 
Hopson  gave  us  a  great  surprise  mainly 
because  he  seldom  talked  on  the  trains 
going  in  or  coming  out,  and  we  got  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  a  man  who  had 
emptied  too  much  of  the  fountain  of  youth 
into  the  currents  of  trade.  But  we  were 
mistaken. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  only  one 
man  for  president,"  Hopson  said  rather 
solemnly.  "Our  recent  literature  has 
pointed  the  way.  We  have  as  a  popular 
hero  a  medical  detective;  we  have  in  our 
later  novels  all  sorts  of  diagnoses,  analyses 
and  clinics.  And  Pegasus  when  not  gal- 
loping over  a  graveyard  or  drawing  an  am- 
bulance is  capering  nimbly  to  a  doctor's 
gig.  I  therefore  nominate  the  doctor. 

But  while  we  applauded  Hopson  we  de- 
clined to  follow  his  advice.  Our  member- 


176  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

ship  was  almost  two-thirds  feminine,  and 
we  left  the  presidency  open,  authorizing 
every  meeting  to  select  its  presiding  officer, 
if  it  wished  one,  and  to  alternate  between 
the  sexes.  In  this  way  we  avoided  any 
possible  complication  arising  from  the  re- 
newal of  the  fight  for  equal  suffrage. 

From  the  successful  beginning  of  the 
Shakespeare  Club,  Sunnyside  Park  grew  in 
sociability.  Because  he  has  a  lot  around 
his  house,  the  average  suburbanite  soon 
begins  to  imagine  that  his  fence  encloses 
the  larger  part  of  the  world.  We  had  be- 
gun to  be  selfish,  to  draw  ourselves  into 
our  own  shells.  There  was  no  general 
purpose  to  bring  us  together.  The  men 
came  home  at  night,  ate  their  dinners,  sat 
around  and  went  to  bed.  Occasionally 
there  had  been  a  reception  and  we  had 
gone  to  it  as  complainingly  as  boys  to 
school.  Gradually  there  had  come  over  us 
a  vague  suspicion  that  suburban  life  was 
not  the  joyous  existence  the  real  estate 
men  had  pictured.  The  Shakespeare  Club 
came  at  the  right  moment.  We  began  very 
timidly,  and  our  first  proceedings  consisted 
mainly  of  refreshments,  but  in  good  time 
we  attacked  the  question  of  Shakespearean 
criticism.  Owing  to  our  inexperience  and 
the  individual  reluctance  to  open  the  way, 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  177 

we  had  to  abandon  the  plan  of  skirmishers 
and  make  a  general  assault.  So  every 
member  was  ordered  to  present  his  or  her 
views  on  the  women  of  the  immortal  bard. 
The  sketches  were  to  be  brief,  in  order  that 
they  might  be  crowded  into  one  evening. 
We  did  our  duty  faithfully,  and  the  pro- 
gram started  out  with  great  promise,  but 
gradually  it  fagged  and  a  feeling  of  despair 
settled  like  a  nightmare  upon  us.  The 
trouble  was  we  had  all  pilfered  from  the 
same  book,  and  we  sat  there  a  lot  of 
crushed  and  self-convicted  plagiarists. 

We  dropped  literature  and  sought  to 
drown  its  memory  in  the  dissipation  of 
cards  and  theatricals.  The  club's  popular- 
ity continued  with  all  except  Sarah  Dorton 
and  John  Black,  who  were  approaching 
matrimony  in  long  executive  sessions 
which  were  disturbed  once  a  week  by  the 
club  meeting.  Next  to  the  club,  John  and 
Sarah  were  the  main  reliance  of  the  Park. 
They  had  expected  to  be  married  before, 
but  owing  to  the  unlooked-for  and  very  in- 
opportune inconsistency  of  a  jury  in  up- 
holding a  will  from  which  John,  as  the 
counsel  of  the  plaintiff,  had  great  hopes, 
the  date  had  been  postponed.  The  match 
met  with  the  favor  of  the  Park's  popu- 
lation, but  it  was  being  too  long  drawn  out. 

12 


178  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

The  Dorton  house  was  the  highest  in  the 
place.  Gradually  it  became  a  Park  weak- 
ness to  regulate  the  night  by  the  lone  light 
in  the  parlor.  "John  is  still  there"  was 
always  understood.  It  grew  so  habitual 
that  some  of  the  ladies  would  go  to  sleep 
at  early  hours  and  wake  up  between  eleven 
and  twelve  to  see  if  the  light  was  burning. 
It  thus  happened  that  John  and  Sarah  be- 
gan to  interfere  with  sound  slumber,  and 
certain  married  men  contended  that  if  the 
nuptials  were  not  celebrated  within  a  rea- 
sonable time  there  would  be  an  epidemic  of 
insomnia  in  the  Park.  Worse  than  this, 
however,  was  the  effect  on  Mr.  Dorton. 
He  was  erratic,  not  to  say  mildly  insane, 
over  his  furnace  and  was  of  the  belief  that 
if  he  did  not  attend  to  it  the  last  thing 
every  night,  "the  whole  family,"  to  use  the 
doctor's  plagiarized  joke,  "would  wake  up 
some  morning  and  find  themselves  cre- 
mated." It  was  not  pleasant  for  this  mid- 
dle-aged banker  to  arise  after  John  went  at 
midnight  and  make  a  trip  to  the  cellar, 
even  if  he  did  regard  the  young  man  who 
was  to  become  his  son-in-law  with  unusual 
affection.  John  knew  thi?  and  offered  to 
go  down  and  fix  the  furnace  before  his 
leave-taking,  but  Sarah  assured  him  that  it 
would  never  do  to  suggest  such  a  thing  to 


SLUMBERING   JOSEPH.  179 

her  father,  who  was  greatly  devoted  to  the 
proprieties. 

Near  the  end  of  October  the  Shakes- 
peare Club  met  at  the  Addersly  house,  and 
the  evening  was  typical  of  our  literary  en- 
tertainments. There  was  music,  and  fol- 
lowing it  were  cards  in  which  about  one- 
half  of  the  members  participated.  The  rest 
of  us  formed  in  circles  and  gossiped.  On 
this  particular  evening,  however,  we  left 
the  card-players  in  the  library  and  assem- 
bled in  the  parlor.  As  usual,  the  ladies 
monopolized  the  conversation,  and  it  did 
not  take  long  for  the  servant  question  to 
arise  in  all  its  grim  and  ghastly  vigor.  It 
was  declared,  without  any  attempt  at  con- 
tradiction, that  the  tariff  and  the  silver  and 
all  other  such  issues,  then  uppermost  in 
the  heated  political  campaign,  were  trifles 
compared  to  the  servant  question. 

"Why,  I  hear  the  men  saying  they  have 
too  many  changes  in  politics,  too  many 
elections,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  They 
say  one  President  in  four  years  is  too 
much,  and  getting  a  new  Congress  every 
two  years  is  a  nuisance.  The  reformers, 
the — ah, — what  do  you  call  them? — wig- 
wams?" appealed  Mrs.  Addersly  to  Henry 
Wilson. 

"Perhaps  you  mean  mugwumps." 


I8o  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

"Thank  you.  Those  mugwumps — I  read 
all  about  it  in  the  papers,  you  know — say 
— please,  Mr.  Wilson,  what  do  you  call  this 
turning  around  of  people  who  have  places 
in  politics?"  she  asked  again,  accompany- 
ing the  question  with  a  rotary  motion  of 
her  right  hand. 

"Rotation  in  office." 

"They  are  opposed  to  this  rotation  in 
office,"  Mrs.  Addersly  continued  briskly, 
talking  swifter  and  becoming  more  elo- 
quent all  the  time.  "Why  bless  you,  my 
dears,"  she  exclaimed  in  peroration,  "the 
servant  question  is  a  million  times  worse 
than  rotation  in  office — it's  perpetual  mo- 
tion. I've  had  six  new  ones  in  five  weeks, 
and  /  know." 

"Here  is  an  idea,"  said  Wilson.  "Most 
of  our  trouble  comes  from  the  furnaces. 
The  girls  from  the  city  won't  bother  with 
them,  not  only  because  they  dislike  it,  but 
because  they  think  it's  a  man's  work,  and 
that  they  ought  not  to  be  called  upon  to 
perform  it.  Now,  we  can't  each  afford  to 
hire  a  man,  because  the  furnace  itself  is  ex- 
pense enough,  but  by  sharing  the  cost  I 
do  not  see  why  we  cannot  do  it  easily.  In 
other  words,  co-operate?" 

"I  am  in  favor  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Dor- 
ton  innocently  but  positively,  and  when 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  l8l 

everybody  laughed  she  thought  a  moment 
and  then  she  laughed  too. 

If  the  Shakespeare  Club  had  done  noth- 
ing else  for  Sunnyside  Park,  this  service 
alone  would  have  doubly  justified  its  exist- 
ence. The  Park  is  composed  of  two  set- 
tlements, one  on  the  lower  avenue  and  the 
other  further  up  on  the  hill,  a  good  walk- 
ing distance  from  the  former.  Six  of  the 
houses  were  scattered  in  the  upper  settle- 
ment, and  these  six  families  met  in  solemn 
conclave  and  determined  to  try  co-opera- 
tion as  a  solution  of  the  furnace  question. 

Everything  was  ready  except  the  man, 
but  when  there  is  a  need  there  is  someone 
to  fill  it.  Out  of  the  doubt  Joseph  came. 
Whence  he  came  or  how  he  came,  no  one 
knew.  Our  only  knowledge  was  that  he 
appeared.  He  had  heard  we  wanted  a  man 
to  attend  furnaces.  He  respectfully  applied 
for  the  place.  Hopson  argued  it  out  in  this 
irregular  manner:  The  Shakespeare  Club 
was  responsible  for  Joseph;  the  Shakes- 
peare Club  came  from  the  doctor's  idea 
about  flocking;  and  the  doctor's  idea  about 
flocking  came  from  an  egg:  therefore  Jos- 
eph was  ab  ovo.  He  was  past  middle  age, 
with  a  deep  black,  solemn  face,  and  with  a 
certain  manly  dignity,  in  spite  of  his  stoop- 
ing shoulders  and  his  curious  legs.  His 


182  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

language  was  so  unnaturally  stilted  that  we 
first  questioned  his  mental  soundness,  but 
when  the  doctor  said  that  big  words  and 
big  linen  dusters  and  big  pills  were  three 
failings  of  the  negro  race,  we  accepted  the 
explanation  and  admitted  Joseph  to  our  re- 
spect. When  asked  what  pay  he  expected, 
Joseph  replied: 

"With  your  kind  permission,  I'll  accept 
the  customary  rememberation  for  employ- 
ment of  that  char-ract-ter."  When  we  in- 
sisted that  he  name  a  figure,  he  replied: 
"I'll  be  pleased  to  accommerdate  my  pre- 
dilections to  your  circumferences."  Fin- 
ally, we  offered  him  a  dollar  a  week  each, 
or  six  dollars  in  all,  extremely  good  wages 
for  a  man  of  his  class. 

He  was  reticent  about  his  home,  but  said 
in  a  general  way  that  he  resided  out  in  the 
country  near  the  "elected  cars." 

Joseph  was  taken  in  hand  by  Mr.  Dor- 
ton,  who  was  the  furnace  expert  of  the 
Park,  and  was  diligently  trained.  When 
Mr.  Dorton  announced  that  he  would  be 
willing  to  trust  his  furnace  to  Joseph's 
management,  we  were  at  first  incredulous, 
and  then  glad.  Most  of  us  remained  up  an 
hour  later  that  night  congratulating  our- 
selves on  this  good  fortune. 

Nor  were  our  expectations  vain.  Joseph 
was  a  blessing.  He  doubled  the  comfort 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  183 

and  cheerfulness  of  the  Park.  Not  only 
did  he  attend  to  the  furnaces  perfectly,  but 
he  became  the  factor  that  regulated  our  hap- 
piness. There  were  no  more  late  break- 
fasts or  cold  houses,  and  we  had  hot  water 
for  our  bath  tubs.  He  came  before  six 
and  started  the  drafts.  By  seven  there  was 
a  glow  in  each  of  the  six  houses.  He  be- 
came the  herald  of  the  morning,  crying  out 
gossip  and  pious  philosophy  in  the  dawn. 
As  a  result,  the  cooks  were  always  up  to 
greet  him,  and  his  thin,  penetrating  voice 
often  drifted  into  the  second-story  where 
we  were  lazily  recognizing  the  necessity  of 
meeting  the  duties  of  another  day. 

"They  say  the  most  unsartin  thing  is  a 
cat,"  he  declared  one  morning.  "You  set 
it  down  and  you  can't  tell  which-a-way  it 
will  jump.  But  the  most  unsartin  thing  is 
a  day.  You  kin  never  tell  how  it's  agoin 
to  come  out.  I  say  to  you,  sister,  as  a 
lowly  member  of  the  Church  of  Zion,  dat 
we'd  all  better  be  layin'  up  treasures  in 
heaven,  where  the  moth  of  dis  world  will 
not  break  in  and  corrupt."  He  paused  a 
moment,  and  then  he  went  on  more  sol- 
emnly than  ever.  "Sometimes  it  appears 
to  me  dis  life  desembles  one  of  these  fine 
new  furnaces  of  the  which  I  am  the  super- 
intendent and  manager.  It's  mighty  purty 


184  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

when  it  starts  out— clean  inside,  shiny  on 
the  kiver,  drafts  all  on  and  a  plenty  of  nice 
new  coal;  little  slow  at  first,  but  a  burnin' 
faster  an'  faster,  and  gitten  hotter  and  hot- 
ter and  sendin'  nice  warm  air  all  through 
the  house  and  makin'  joy  all  'round;  but 
bime-by  the  blue  flame  gits  white,  black 
coal  turns  to  ashes;  grates  chock  up  with 
clinkers,  and  where  is  the  heat  then?  All 
burned  out.  Jest  like  life — jest  like  life. 
And  ole  Mr.  Shakespeare  could  a  writ  a 
whole  book  on  it." 

Gradually  the  Shakespeare  Club  occupied 
itself  more  and  more  with  chronicling  the 
curious  mistakes  and  elaborate  views  of 
Joseph.  We  found  ourselves  waking  in  the 
morning  in  the  hope  of  catching  something 
new  from  his  sunrise  conversations.  Wil- 
son finally  said  that  between  the  sitting  up 
of  John  Black  and  Sarah  Dorton  and  the 
waking  up  to  hear  Joseph,  an  epidemic  of 
insomnia  was  absolutely  certain. 

"What  in  heaven's  name  does  that  negro 
know  about  Shakespeare?"  we  asked;  and 
before  we  could  solve  the  mystery  something 
happened.  A  burglary  not  far  from  our  place 
caused  a  general  purchase  of  firearms.  One 
morning,  about  five  o'clock,  Hopson  heard 
a  person  trying  to  effect  an  entrance  into 
his  house.  Without  pausing  to  investigate, 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  185 

he  began  to  fire  in  the  direction  of  the 
noise.  The  man  made  a  dash  for  the  next 
house,  and  another  volley  sent  him  on  to 
the  third,  by  which  time  the  Park  was 
aroused  and  new  pistols  were  being  tried 
by  their  owners.  Finally  the  man  was 
heard  running  through  the  lower  field,  and 
afterwards  there  was  silence.  We  had  to 
attend  to  our  own  furnaces  that  morning, 
and  we  felt  like  dealing  rashly  with  Hop- 
son.  His  claim,  that  as  Joseph  was  an 
hour  ahead  of  time  the  mistake  was  nat- 
ural, did  not  entirely  remove  our  sense  of 
wrong.  Later  in  the  day  the  following 
note  was  received  and  circulated: 

Gentlemen,  Mr.  Hopson,  Sir: — Kindly  in- 
form the  gentlemen  of  your  place  that  a  dollar 
a  week  do  not  include  bein'  shot  at.  I  know 
I  were  a  little  early,  but  hereafter  you  needn't 
look  for  me  till  daybreak. 

Respectfully,     JOSEPH  MACBETH. 

P.  S. — 'Tis  a  vile  thing  to  die,  my  gracious 

lord, 

When  men  are  unprepared  and  look  not 
for  it.  — Shakespeare. 

It  was  the  first  time  we  knew  his  last 
name.  Its  inappropriateness  soon  ap- 
peared; for  this  Macbeth  did  not  murder 
sleep.  He  acquired  a  habit  of  slumbering 


l86  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

at  his  work.  We  found  that  he  carried  a 
volume  of  Shakespeare,  and  when  he  and 
Shakespeare  were  left  together  he  soon 
nodded. 

The  Shakespeare  Club  felt  itself  in  honor 
bound  to  solve  the  mystery  of  Joseph's 
book.  He  did  not  want  to  tell  us  at  first, 
but  finally  he  confessed  that  it  was  given 
him  in  return  for  five  coupons.  Anybody 
using  five  bottles  of  Dr.  Quack's  "Conser- 
vator of  Health"  and  sending  on  the  cou- 
pons would  receive  any  one  of  more  than 
a  hundred  of  the  classics  of  literature.  "I 
took  this,"  Joseph  explained,  "because  it 
had  the  most  pages,  and  I'd  heard  our 
preacher  mention  the  gentleman's  name." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Shakespeare?" 

"I  went  to  a  circus  onct,"  he  replied, 
"and  saw  a  man  pile  more  things  than  you 
kin  git  in  a  two-horse  cart  on  top  of  one- 
another  and  keep 'em  balanced.  Seems  to  me 
Mr.  Shakespeare's  mostly  as  wonderful  as 
that  man  was.  He  kin  pile  more  big  words 
on  top  of  each  other  and  tangle  'em  more'n 
anybody  I  ever  read  after — and  the  more 
they  try  to  git  away  the  more  he  holds  'em. 
And  he's  down  on  doctors — he's  down  on 
doctors,  and  I  like  him  for  that." 

It  seemed  that  someone  was  ill  at  Jos- 
eph's house.  At  first  he  reported  it  to  be 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  187 

a  case  of  "ommonia,"  but  he  afterwards 
pronounced  it  a  mild  case  of  "remission  fe- 
ver." His  ability  to  mispronounce  dis- 
eases became  a  source  of  unending  mirth 
to  the  club.  Wilson  declared  that  he  had 
heard  him  call  general  debility  "promis- 
cuous devility,"  and  nervous  prostration, 
"nervous  consternation,"  but  while  Mr. 
Wilson  never  lied  he  had  a  very  industri- 
ous fancy.  Rheumatism  of  course  became 
"rheumatics" — it  generally  does  with  ne- 
groes— and  one  of  Joseph's  favorite  ail- 
ments was  a  "delectation  of  the  heart."  It 
ran  through  all  the  grades  of  elaborate 
mispronunciation,  culminating  in  a  ver- 
sion of  inflammation  of  the  tonsils  that 
went  beyond  credulity. 

In  the  midst  of  our  hilarity  came  a  great 
shock.  Joseph  was  found  asleep  at  his 
post.  The  Dorton  house  was  so  arranged 
that  the  building  proper  was  independent 
of  the  cellar.  Joseph  had  a  key  to  the  cel- 
lar-door, and  came  and  went  without  inter- 
ference with  anyone.  John  Black  had 
quickly  grasped  the  possibilities  of  the  ar- 
rangement, and  had  contracted  with  Jos- 
eph at  a  consideration  of  an  extra  dollar  a 
week  to  remain  in  the  cellar  and  attend  to 
the  furnace  after  his  call  was  over.  For  a 
while  all  went  well,  but  one  cold  December 


l88  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

night,  Joseph  fell  asleep  and  awoke  to  find 
the  fuel  burned  out,  the  furnace  cold,  and 
Mr.  Dorton  standing  angrily  over  him.  He 
opened  his  eyes,  looked  wildly  at  the  day- 
light coming  through  the  cellar  window, 
and,  muttering  what  seemed  to  be  words  of 
apology  and  alarm,  walked  to  the  step,  lift- 
ed the  door  and  hastened  in  a  straight  line 
across  the  field.  We  all  had  to  attend  to 
our  own  fires  that  morning,  and  when  we 
found  out  the  cause  our  indignation  was 
promptly  concentrated  upon  the  head  of 
John  Black. 

That  night  we  had  to  look  to  our  fur- 
naces again,  and  we  spent  the  evening 
regretting  Joseph  and  abusing  John 
Black.  All  at  once  our  happiness  had 
gone  under  a  cloud. 

"Strange  how  much  depends  upon  one 
man  sometimes,  and  he  only  getting  six 
dollars  a  week,"  said  Mary. 

"Seven,"  I  replied. 

"Oh,  yes;  John — the  villain!" 

We  looked,  for  the  next  morning  with 
anxiety.  Would  Joseph  return?  The  Wil- 
son rooster — the  Cochin-China  which  Wil- 
son boasts  so  much  of — mistook  the  moon- 
light for  dawn  and  crowed  us  into  error. 
But  we  kept  still  and  waited.  Five  o'clock 
struck.  Tick!  tick!  tick!  Half-past  five— 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  189 

what  was  that  noise!  A  steady  tread  on 
the  frozen  road.  Nearer  and  nearer  it 
came.  We  heard  the  click  of  the  key  in  the 
cellar  lock.  Joy  unspeakable!  It  was 
Joseph. 

By  the  time  he  emerged  from  the  cellar, 
Eliza,  our  cook,  was  on  the  back  porch 
with  her  morning  greeting. 

Joseph  was  very  humble.  "I  would  be 
deeply  obligated,  Miss  Eliza,"  he  said,  "if 
you  would  signify  to  the  gentleman  and 
lady  that  I  was  overcome  with  a  spell  of 
the  dropsy.  When  I  am  in  that  condition 
I  jest  naturally  slumber.  It  appears  to  me 
my  eyelids  is  so  asphyxiated  that  they 
won't  separate."  This  apology  delivered 
to  the  cook  of  each  of  the  six  houses  led  to 
the  name  of  Slumbering  Joseph. 

After  that  Joseph  had  other  fits  of  slum- 
bering. He  became  more  irregular  in  his 
work.  He  talked  to  the  cooks  of  symp- 
toms, and  spoke  medical  terms  with  learn- 
ed gravity.  He  developed  a  mania  for  pat- 
ent medicine  almanacs  and  carefully  cut 
patent  medicine  advertisements  from  the 
newspapers.  A  meeting  of  the  Shakespeare 
Club  gathered  together  many  of  his  lin- 
gual eccentricities.  Wilson's  report  was 
probably  the  most  interesting,  although 
possibly  not  the  most  reliable.  According 
to  his  account,  Joseph  spoke  as  follows: 


IQO  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

"There  are  three  unsartain  things  in  this 
world:  viz,  namely:  A  cat  is  unsartain,  a 
day  is  unsartain,  but  the  most  unsartain 
thing  is  ailments.  Here  are  treatises  giv- 
ing us  information  on  the  subject,  and  still 
it's  mighty  hard  to  understand.  For  inci- 
dents, here's  marasmus  and  troubles  of  the 
liver,  and  typhoid  fever  and  information  of 
the  throat,  and  mighty  near  two  dozen 
other  epidemics,  and  here  are  the  symp- 
toms— by  which  is  meant  the  feelings,  that 
is  to  say,  the  convolutions  and  convul- 
sions— and  in  these  symptoms  I  find  such 
things  as  a  'forlorn  feeling,'  'a  feeling  of  de- 
pression,' 'a  general  desire  for  inactivity,' 
'a  great  inclination  to  rest,'  and  'a  lack  of 
willingness  to  work.'  Have  you  ever  felt 
this  way,  sister?" 

The  cook  replied  that  she  was  frequently 
tired,  "which,"  Wilson  added,  "is  not  a 
symptom,  but  a  general  condition,"  and 
Joseph  continued:  "That's  it  perzactly, 
All  these  words  mean  perzactly  that,  but 
there  is  hope,  sister;  there  is  hope.  One 
bottle  cures  everything  from  stone  bruise 
to  cholera  morbus  and  the  recuperation  of 
the  hair." 

The  doctor,  who  lived  on  the  lower  ave- 
nue, and  who  undoubtedly  had  a  jealous 
feeling  in  regard  to  our  experiment  in  co- 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  IQI 

operation,  spoke  up:  "The  man's  crazy  on 
nostrums,  and  before  you  know  it  he'll 
have  all  your  servants  ruining  themselves 
with  patent  medicines.  You  had  better 
speak  to  him  about  it." 

We  intended  to  do  so,  but  Joseph  devel- 
oped melancholy  tendencies  and  hinted  at 
misfortunes,  which  we  felt  without  knowing 
what  they  were.  One  day  we  suggested 
to  him  that  he  call  in  the  doctor.  The 
effect  was  astonishing.  The  whites  of  his 
eyes  seemed  to  grow  into  moons  floating 
through  the  consternation  of  his  startled 
countenance.  "They  kill,"  he  replied 
tremblingly,  at  the  same  time  drawing  an 
almanac  from  his  pocket.  Opening  this 
well-worn  pamphlet  he  pointed  to  para- 
graphs relating  to  cases  miraculously  cured 
after  physicians  had  given  up  all  hope;  to 
testimonials  of  people  who  had  been  ruined 
by  doctors  in  health  and  in  purse  and  then 
snatched  from  untimely  graves  by  only  two 
bottles,  and  finally  to  the  experience  of  a 
man  seventy-eight  years  old,  who,  thanks 
to  the  efficacy  of  the  medicine,  "could  jump 
up  and  pop  his  feet  together  twice  before 
he  touched  the  ground." 

In  some  respects  Joseph  was  a  diplo- 
matist. He  thought  he  saw  a  temporary 
advantage  in  the  impression  the  book  had 
created,  and  he  quickly  followed  it  up: 


IQ2  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

"Times  is  a  little  tight,  sir;  a  little  de- 
tracted, sir;  and  maybe  you  might  want  to 
favor  the  old  man  by  permitting  him  to 
draw  this  week's  remembration  in  advance. 
I'd  be  greatly  obligated,  sir." 

He  got  the  dollar.  That  evening  he  did 
not  come  to  fix  the  furnace.  There  was  a 
meeting  of  the  Shakespeare  Club,  and  we 
discussed  this  second  dereliction  with 
great  earnestness.  We  still  believed  in  him, 
but  our  faith  was  weakened  by  the  discov- 
ery that  he  had  drawn  all  his  pay  in  ad- 
vance including  John  Black's  extra  dollar. 
The  next  day  he  did  not  appear.  The  third 
day  he  was  missing.  We  were  in  the  depths 
of  despair.  We  never  knew  until  then  how 
necessary  Joseph  was  to  our  comfort.  We 
determined  if  possible  to  find  him.  A  good 
servant  is  too  priceless  in  our  vicinity  to  be 
let  go  if  any  inducement  can  prevail.  On 
inquiry,  we  ascertained  that  a  few  hours 
after  his  disappearance  from  Sunnyside,  he 
was  seen  on  the  electric  car  bound  for  the 
city.  Late  at  night  he  returned  on  the 
same  car.  After  that  no  one  had  seen  or 
known  anything  of  him.  We  called  on  the 
doctor  and  asked  him  if  he  would  go  with 
us  to  Joseph's  home. 

After  diligent  searching,  we  found  Jos- 
eph's house,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  life 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  193 

around  it.  We  pushed  on  through  the  dark 
hall,  and  in  another  room,  by  the  light  of 
the  only  window  we  saw  Joseph  leaning 
over  the  bed  intently  gazing  into  the 
wasted  face  of  a  woman,  almost  as  black  as 
h ;  was.  The  room  was  cold.  He  had  a 
gaunt  look,  but  the  hungriness  of  his  face 
was  almost  lost  in  the  intensity  of  his  gaze. 
He  seemed  totally  oblivious  to  everything 
except  the  woman. 

"You'll  be  all  right  soon,"  he  said  ten- 
derly and  confidently.  "All  right  soon, 
wife."  There  were  no  big  words  now.  "The 
other  medicine  wasn't  strong  enough,"  he 
went  on.  "I  thought  it  was,  but  I  mistook 
your  symptoms.  But  this — this — why  Sa- 
rinda,  I  told  you  yesterday,  and  I  tell  you 
again,  I've  saved  and  saved  and  got  'em 
to  pay  my  wages  in  advance,  and  we've 
starved  and  starved  jes  for  this,  to  save 
your  life.  It  cost  twenty  dollars.  Its  'lec- 
tricity,  Sarinda.  'Lectricity.  Here's  what 
the  book  says."  And  he  read  a  lot  of  non- 
sense about  magnetism  and  magnetic  cur- 
rents and  the  compound  terms  familiar  in 
that  sort  of  quackery. 

"Sometimes  it  cures  first  day,  sometimes 
second  day,  but  it's  sure  on  the  third.  This 
is  the  third  day,  Sarinda,  and  it  must — it 
— must — work.  Look  at  me,  wife.  Look  at 


Ip4  SLUMBERING   JOSEPH. 

Joseph.  Tell  me  you  feel  stronger— tell 
me — " 

Her  eyes  closed,  and  Joseph,  in  his  sus- 
pense, fell  upon  his  knees. 

He  ceased  praying  and  bent  over  her 
again  appealingly. 

"Sarinda,  the  time  is  come.  Give  me  a 
sign.  Lift  up  your  hand,  and  look  at  me. 
Look,  wife,  look." 

Almost  imperceptibly  the  hand  moved, 
the  eyes  began  to  unclose,  but  just  as  the 
hand  was  clear  of  the  bed  and  the  eyes  half 
open  there  came  a  collapse. 

Joseph  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  stunned. 
Then  his  poor  trembling  hand  went  hope- 
lessly to  his  forehead.  After  a  pause  he 
bent  down  and  listened.  The  look  of  fear 
in  his  face  deepened  into  indescribable  ag- 
ony as  the  awful  suspicion  came  over  his 
scattered  senses.  He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
crying  with  a  voice  like  the  desperate  roar 
of  a  despairing  animal:  "They  lied.  They 
lied.  And  I  have  gone  and  killed  her." 

When  we  went  on  into  the  room  Joseph 
was  furiously  tearing  almanacs  and  circu- 
lars amid  cries  and  imprecations,  and 
around  him  were  the  fragments  of  the  nos- 
trum advertisments.  So  engrossing  was 
his  fury  he  did  not  notice  us,  and  when  we 
tried  to  get  him  into  the  next  room  we  had 
to  remove  him  by  main  force. 


SLUMBERING  JOSEPH.  IQ5 

When  we  returned,  the  doctor  had  made 
his  examination.  "She  is  not  dead,"  he 
said.  "She  has  only  fainted  from  weakness, 
but  she  is  as  near  starvation  as  any  person 
I  ever  saw.  I  feel  quite  confident  that  good 
care  and  proper  nourishment  will  save 
her." 

The  Shakespeare  Club  had  tried  many 
things  from  taffy-pullings  and  progressive 
euchre  to  musicales  and  an  evening  with 
Browning,  but  charity  had  not  come  within 
its  experiences.  We  were  anxious  for  nov- 
elties, and  the  case  of  Joseph  and  Sarinda 
appealed  to  us  strongly,  especially  when  we 
learned  that  Joseph's  slumbers  and  other 
irregularities  were  caused  by  his  attentions 
at  the  bedside  of  his  wife,  and  that  in  his 
poor  misguided  way  he  had  starved  himself 
as  well  as  Sarinda  in  order  to  buy  med- 
icines in  whose  efficacy  he  had  such  abso- 
lute faith. 

We  held  a  series  of  festivals  and  dona- 
tion parties,  and  on  the  proceeds  Joseph 
and  Sarinda  returned  speedily  to  health. 
In  presenting  her  acknowledgments,  Sa- 
rinda, who  was  not  as  intellectual  as  Jos- 
eph, said:  "I  never  was  sick  nohow  till 
Joe  done  gone  crazy  on  sniptoms  and  ail- 
ments." 


IQ6  SLUMBERING  JOSEPH. 

Sarinda  is  the  cook  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
John  Black  (nee  Dorton)  who  were  mar- 
ried after  John  got  a  new  trial  of  the  will 
case  and  won  it,  and  Joseph  still  attends  to 
the  furnaces.  He  does  not  talk  as  much  to 
the  cooks  as  he  formerly  did,  because  Sa- 
rinda, having  lost  faith  in  her  husband's  in- 
fallibility, is  making  experiments  in  domes- 
tic tyranny. 

The  doctor  says  that  this  is  a  fine  illus- 
tration of  human  nature,  and  Wilson  used 
it  to  aid  a  point  in  his  alleged  humorous 
lecture  before  the  Club  on  "The  Despot- 
ism of  the  Weaker  Sex  When  It  Holds 
the  Stronger  Hand." 


A    001  410749 


